So that the world might be mended
by MaichenM
Summary: Every time he died, he lost more of himself. Now, he doesn't even know his name, All that he remembers is that he swore to serve her. But can he endure this mission? And can he trust anyone? In a world torn apart by Demons, other humans are the most dangerous enemy.
1. The Maiden and her Champion

_I am here for thee, and thee only._

The nexus sits, a place independent of time and space. True to this, it stays much the same. The last sanctuary of the handful of survivors, from a kingdom that once housed ten thousand. A place that can house the souls of the dead, and return them as ghosts, but very few, and only the most precious. It has been said that not even kings have qualified for such treatment, and that only those the monumentals have deemed worthy may possess such immortality.

And out of one of the stone faces, their champion exited.

But he did not exit, he fell.

His body hit the ground with a resounding clank as the plates of his armor rattled. Blood leaked out of the gaps in between the mail. Blood. He had forgotten how it felt. Forgotten how his armor felt. Forgotten the cold of the steel against his body. Being purely ethereal was easy in some ways, especially for a warrior. There was no pain when he was hit, only a sound like wind, and an expulsion of ectoplasm.  
But now his body was back. Each time it came back, the scars were gone, and each time he lost it, he felt himself scrambling for it in the dark.

Because as much as being a soul removed the pain, it also removed everything else. He prayed to the God of Miracles that no other man should ever be forced to feel such emptiness again, once the Old One was slain.

When he finally looked up he saw them staring at him. Their eyes followed him with a simple question: _is he okay?_

He stood up, his entire body heavy from the weight of his armor. Flesh wounds, that was all they were, and he'd be able to convince Saint Urbain to heal him. It was the least the holy man could do, despite his grumbling about using Demon's Souls, he'd see it when Urbain turned from him, when he thought he wasn't looking: he was just as scared as everyone else. Just as scared the demons would find the Nexus, that they would all die.

It was a thought that The Champion didn't concern himself with.

He didn't remember when he had lost his real name. Perhaps at some point along the line of the countless deaths, the frequent resurrections, the time when all the energy of the souls of others began to swirl around inside him, so much so that he occasionally felt he would vomit.

_By god. _He would think to himself, as the voices spoke. _How could an entire Kingdom do this?_

It was true. Boletaria was being punished for its sins. But that didn't mean that the rest of the world needed to die with it.

He needed to absorb their energy again. That last fight had been too close. He needed to be stronger.

He looked for her. Asking around never seemed to help much. No one kept track of her. They all seemed to stick around in their usual haunts. She alone explored the Nexus, walking up and down its vast halls, being found in a different place every time. He'd tried to ask her questions, before, but had gotten nothing. Her strange speech spoke of a different time, and her accent spoke of a foreign place.

She sat there, on the stairs, her feet idly drumming on the stone. She was barefoot and dressed in rags. Clearly, she had once been beautiful, but her eyes, along with huge chunks of her face, had been covered by pieces of leather that had been stitched into it. Who had done this? Why? Something told him that asking her would get no results.

"Hello," he said, approaching her.

She looked up, as if she could actually see him, and her blindness seemed even more disturbing, her soft lips opened and closed gently, as if the words were flowing through her, and she was allowing them to, rather than actually speaking.

"Thou seeketh soul power?"

He hesitated, "yes…but first, can I just ask some questions?"

She turned away, "The monumental shalt explain all to thee."

He sat down next to her, his legs dangling over the side, like hers. It was hard. His greaves weighed him down and threatened to pull him over the edge. But his strength—enhanced by her power—held him up.

"I know that. I asked him all of the questions he could answer, but there were some he couldn't."

"The Monumental is wise beyond thy ken. He understandst more than thee canst ever comprehend."

"Okay, I get that," the Champion said, leaning back so he didn't have to strain himself so much. "But then I asked him about you."

Her body went still.

"All that he told me was that you were a powerful demon…one of the most powerful. But that makes no sense. If you were, why would you help me? Why would you help humans?"

She didn't respond.

"Well?"

"Thou hast asked thy questions. Now doth thou seeketh soul power?"

"I implied I wanted an answer," he said.

"Thou ist free to. I cannot prevent thee from wishing."

He sighed, this is how it was. She hid behind the veil of her old-timey speech and he wasn't sure if she was really being evasive or if she just didn't understand. It seemed like there were times when she couldn't grasp some of the things he was trying to tell her. She was from a different time, and clearly a very different place.

"Can I ask questions, not about you, will you answer them?"

"The monumental-"

"I don't want to speak to the monumental. I want to speak to you."

"Thou mayst speak."

"Will you _answer._"

There was a pause. Then he heard her soft voice.

"Mayhaps."

He sighed. That was the best that he was going to get. He started with his first question.

"Why do human souls make people…I don't know…stronger? How does that even work?"

"A soul ist the purest form of energy. It ist what separates life from death. Thy soul distinguisheth thee from a rock, from a grain of sand."

"From a tree?" he asked.

She shook her head, "No, even a tree hast a soul, it is just weak, very weak. The soul groweth strong from accomplishment, great deeds. The soul of a hero ist worth a thousandfold that of a commoner."

"But where does that energy come from?"

She turned her head downward, and he could swear that she was looking into the glyphs that blocked off the core of the Nexus…but that was impossible.

"Existence," was her answer.

"So…souls are basically energy. The energy that gives life to things…and when I use them I'm absorbing that energy…the energy of the things that people have accomplished, because that's what makes a soul stronger. I'm taking that I'm making my muscles stronger, my mind more intelligent…sometimes impossibly so."

She nodded, "And that ist what demons do. They takest the souls of men and absorbst them for The Old One. The soul arts are just your kind learning to do the same."

"But then what's the difference between a practicioner of the Soul Arts, and a demon?"

"Only whether he serveth The Old One."

"…Then if you were a demon…"

"I still am. I servest The Old One."

He stood up in a flash, and drew his sword, backing away toward one of the monoliths.

"Thou ist startled?" She said, standing up, turning, looking toward him without seeing.

"I don't believe it. You've been helping me this whole time," he said.

She nodded.

"Why? Why have you been making me stronger, when my goal is to destroy it?"

She cocked her head, "Thou doth not understand thy goal, then. Thou wast never meant to kill The Old One. It canst not be killed."

"What do you mean it can't be killed!? Are you saying that my entire quest is a waste?"

She shook her head, heavily, and her long braid flowed side to side. "No. The Old One ist to be lured into an indeterminable slumber. So that it mayst rest, and be at peace. Such ist my duty. But I am blind, and weak, and so I haveth chosen another."

He lowered his sword, "me."

She nodded.

"But why? Out of everyone, why me?"

"Thou art strong, but that ist worthless. Thou art brave. Thou camest to us when the strongest heroes of the land, far stronger than thee, hadst already failed. Strength canst be given, as long as there ist will."

"So…_me. _You bound _me _to the nexus, so that I couldn't die, when everyone in this kingdom was already dying. You made _me _stronger…because you thought that I would have the will, that I would keep fighting, that I wouldn't give up."

She nodded.

He stared at her, then sheathed his sword, and nodded back.

"Ist thou ready?" She asked

The Champion nodded again.

"Then Kneel."

He did so.

And he heard the words, the ever familiar ones, as she grazed her hand over his head. Her rod grew, and power, power from all the souls, filled his veins.

"Soul of the mind, key to life's ether.  
Soul of the lost, withdrawn from its vessel.  
Let strength be granted, so the world might be mended.  
So the world might be mended."


	2. Yurt and the Tower of Latria

After the death of almost all the citizens of Boletaria, some things were rapidly forgotten.

One was the original purpose of the castle of the self-proclaimed Queen Latria. A grim place even in its original days. It stood as a tall, imposing structure, near the border of the Kingdom of Boletaria. It was oft argued how much power the Lord and Lady of Latria had. It was certainly more than the average jailer, and the two nobles frequently enjoyed referring to themselves as kings and queens in their own right. With their arching, gothic towers built over worthless marshland, King Allant felt no need to force them to swear their allegiance, and would only send his worst, most heinous prisoners to them, to be tortured.

And that was why The Prisoner was here.

No one knew that he had been here before the fog came. No one needed to know. He may have been convicted of "murder", a crime he'd deny vehemently until asked if he had "killed" to which, quietly, he would reply: "Yes. Kill I certainly did"

Their torture had meant nothing to him. The gargoyles enchanted to inflict pain upon him came down every morning and tore at his flesh, and when they were satisfied they flapped away, leaving him a groveling mess. Always, the jailer would ask: "are you ready for death?" And always, he would remain silent, letting the dark robed men stand over him until they were more scared of him than he was of them.

And of course, he was scared. To not be was impossible. But he had a greater purpose than his own fear. And it kept him alive.

He knew only whispers of what had happened afterward. The Queen had gone mad, some said. Others spoke of her vanity and lust, of long-held disputes with her husband boiling over. What mattered was that she had exiled him, the man who technically held claim to these grim, skyscraping towers, and taken them for herself. She redubbed the main prison tower "The Tower of Latria".

And next there were whispers. The King had come back, though no one knew how, and with him he brought demons. His wife's family were imprisoned in the cells and kept there until they lost their sanity, and eventually their humanity. The old woman herself had been exiled…and no one knew what had become of her, but a beautiful, idealized version of herself had been put in her place…something to give the prisoners hope, so that their torture would be even more unbearable.

But he had already been a prisoner. And one he would remain. If anything, after the fog came, it grew easier for him. Other than the occasional meal, the demons ignored him. They didn't know why he was imprisoned, and they didn't care enough either way to free him or kill him. For now, he just stood in his cage, dangling over a bottomless precipice. Its location was obviously supposed to be a form of torture in and of itself. However, even with this fearful location, he was incapable of impatience. That, along with most other things that made him human, had left him long ago.

And out of the shadows, a figure approached.

He looked up. The man was bloodied, but covered in well-polished armor. Human in appearance…but then again, so were many archdemons. He was illuminated by a familiar stone, dangling off of his belt.

When the knight reached him, he merely stood. He did not sheathe his sword.

_He's wary. _The prisoner thought. _Smart, in this land._

"You there," the Knight said. "Are you a demon like the rest?"

"I am here to eliminate the threat of the demons," The Prisoner said. "If you have come for the same purpose, then free me."

The Knight still seemed confused, "You seem almost relaxed."

The prisoner examined himself, and saw that it was true. His arms were crossed, he was leaning against the side of the cage as if he were resting. To a man who had probably just fought his way through hordes of demons, it must have been disconcerting.

"I am a relaxed man," was his answer.

"You're not a demon then?" asked the Knight.

"No more than you are."

The Knight nodded, and then opened the cage. The prisoner cracked his neck, and then casually strolled out.

"Good choice," he said. "I promise, you will not regret it. We need all the help we can get in cleansing this land."

"Yes…" the Knight said. "Yes, we certainly do."

Without turning, the Prisoner spoke, "I notice the stone you have at your side."

The Knight looked down on it, "yes…" he said, "It's an augite of souls, made by Geri, a friend of Sage Freke. He crafted it for me on the condition that I try to find Freke."

"You're in luck," the prisoner said. "Freke is here. Or, at least, in the prison tower."

"He is!?" The Knight said, shocked. "Blast it…I'll have to go back for him. There are so few sane people left; the best we can do is rescue all of them."

"Perhaps," the Prisoner said.

"What do you mean, perhaps?"

The prisoner turned and looked at him, their helmets hid their visages, and neither could see the other's eyes. It was impossible for even they, the participants, to tell whether the conversation was turning hostile or friendly.

"The sane individuals you speak of are practicioners of the Soul Arts. Especially Freke, whose lust for souls contradicts reason. Now, when a man's behavior defies reason, is that not the definition of madness?"

"I understand, but Freke should not be judged so harshly in light of what this kingdom has become. Souls are currency here. His greed is no different than a merchant's greed for gold. It doesn't make him mad."

"Oh, but it does," the prisoner said. "Lust for gold is one thing…but lust for the power of another man's soul? That is something unclean…and it is why the deep fog is threatening to overtake the world."

The Knight nodded, "I know…and I agree. But I cannot judge too harshly. I, too, am using the Soul Arts. It is the only way that I can survive."

"You misunderstand me," the prisoner said. "I do not believe that the soul arts should be removed entirely. Surely there is some benefit to them. I merely mean to say that they have been used irresponsibly. Perhaps if there were rules…restrictions. Not the kind of unrestrained use we have seen in recent years."

The Knight nodded, "I think that would be a good idea, given everything that has happened. However, our first priority must be cleansing this kingdom. Afterward, we can discuss how we will prevent this from ever happening again."

"I would gladly help you," the Prisoner went on to say. "But I am weak. I have been in that cage far too long. If there is anywhere I may rest?"

"Of course, there is an archstone back that way," the Knight said, pointing. "There were demons, of course, but I slew all of them between here and there, you should have no trouble."

"An archstone…to the Nexus?"

"Yes."

"Strange…" the prisoner murmured, looking over the edge of the platform, out into the vast darkness. "The Nexus is nothing more than a doorway, the space between the gates. It says tragic things that this is the only safe place left in this kingdom."

"Yes," The Knight said. "It does."

The Prisoner turned, and asked, "and you will go on?"

"It is my duty...and so I must."

The prisoner nodded, "You are strong. You are brave and I hope you accomplish your goals. Perhaps when I am of better strength I shall assist you further. For now, I must leave you."

"Very well," said the Knight. "But before you go, what is your name?"

The prisoner looked at him once more, the glowing augites made the horns on his helmet seem even more imposing. He spoke quietly, now. "My name is Yurt, The Silent Chief."

"A strange title," the Knight sad. "For you speak and I would not take you as a Chief of anything."

"We earn our names. What is yours?" Yurt asked.

"Sadly, I've lost it in the gap between worlds. Those who speak to me often call me Her Champion."

"…so you are the servant of a Lady?" Yurt asked. Again, his helm hid his expression.

"Due to the strangest of circumstances, yes," The Champion said.

"And she who you serve, is her soul dark, or is it pure?"

"I cannot say. She is an enigma. She wears nothing but black, but her skin glows white like the stars. I know not what this says of her."

Yurt nodded, "understand, even if her soul is the darkest and most violent, not to turn from her. For the black souls are not evil, they are simply those who have slain men, as opposed to demons. And men oft have as many causes to be slain, if not more."

"I will remember that," The Champion said.

Yurt turned away again, "I must make my way back to the Nexus. Best of luck with you…especially regarding The King at the top of the tower, he takes phantoms, and corrupts them, and forces them to fight all who oppose him."

The Champion nodded once more, and Yurt stepped off, leaving the light of the glowing augites behind him. For a few more moments, the Demon-Slayer stood, then he turned, and went into the darkness as well.

The augites continued their sad glow, alone, purposeless in the darkness.

They say that Demons do not create evil. That they merely take what is already there.


	3. This Endless Fog

He moved on, through the night. It occurred to him that this was not a natural darkness. There were no stars and no moon. The black surrounding him was not just the absence of light, it was a thick fog that grabbed at him and threatened to cut him off from everything of life or beauty.

Was it the deep fog alone that darkened this place? Even the light of torches seemed dampened. It was hard to breathe not because of the fog going into his lungs, but because of the pure oppressive weight of it, suffocating his eyes so much so that it transferred to the rest of him.

He still wandered the bridges. Why they had neither railing nor fences he could not understand. What mattered was that he had to be careful. The fall was at least a hundred feet down into a marsh filled with face-devouring arachnids. Not pleasant.

Then he heard the flap of wings, and drew his sword. He was ready this time.

The gargoyle flew down, landing before him; it raised its rapier and lunged. His shield came up just in time, and its edge hit the blade, knocking it out of place and leaving the demon open. The Champion thrust his sword with his might behind it, and it entered the demon's chest. Through its death throes, he heard another flap of wings, behind him.

Everything happened very quickly, he spun around, rolling along the ground and narrowly avoiding the edge. The dying gargoyle rolled with him. A crossbow bolt came out of the darkness above and hit its back. He left his sword in the monster's body, and struggled to unholster his own crossbow. As he did, his new opponent landed on the bridge across from him, and began crawling toward him.

By the time the crossbow was freed, the demon had reached him. It pulled its dead companion off of him then loosed a bolt directly into his body. The gigantic quarrel pierced his armor, and he roared. He swung his shield, and it connected with the gargoyle's skull with a crack. He grabbed the monster and tackled it.

Again, he rolled over, and this time he felt his leg dangling over the edge. So was half of the creature's body. He pulled the bolt out of himself, ignoring the pain, and stabbed it into the Gargoyle's eye. Still, that wasn't enough, the thing grabbed at him with its claws and tried to pull him over the edge. He felt his balance teetering, and in response used his shield to hammer the bolt further into its brain. With one hit, the bolt went out the back, and the creature's head swung down, hitting the side of the bridge. There was a snap as its neck broke, but he didn't stop. Again and again the shield came down, until what had once been a stone face beneath him was now an utter mess. Its weight pulled it down, and he stood, allowing gravity to pull the body away, into the darkness.

He turned, and drew his sword from its companion.

All in all, it had been a fairly easy fight.

He kept walking.

He wished for nothing more than to not be alone on these journeys. That was what truly hurt, the loneliness. He saw only shadows of others, whispers in the fog. Glowing bloodstains that should not have existed in this world. When he touched them, he saw how they had been slain. Other warriors trying to save their own worlds? Strange reflections of him? It was impossible to tell. Sometimes, they became solid enough to assist him.

Other times, they were more malevolent than the demons themselves.

And now, even as he thought of it, he felt the dark presence. The fog suddenly grew thicker. The night darker. His hand went to the hilt of his sword and gripped it as a fierce chill came to him: yet again, the boundary between worlds had been broken. A black phantom had invaded.

He did not know who they were, where they came from, but they were the most cunning enemies he faced. It was when he fought them that he did not know whether he would survive.

All he could do was keep traveling. Hopefully the demon would not encounter him before the next archstone.

The Grey fog was like an immense barrier. And there was no way to avoid it. Again, he'd have to pass through it, and again he'd have to face the monster on the other side. It was becoming a pattern, one that he now understood. And that was good, because he didn't have time to think. He was too busy surviving.

Ahead of him was a massive, spiraling tower, and he knew that it was at the top. It had all the signs. The Deep Fog grew heavier, and the night grew darker. When he reached it, it was anyone's guess on whether he would survive.

And he still hadn't run into that phantom, yet.

Carefully, he entered the tower, a face stealer lunged at him and he easily caught it with the blade of his sword, chopping its face in two. When he looked up, he saw that there were two more of the creature's kin, already lying there, dead.

He did not sheathe the sword.

The steps were a seemingly endless spiral. Stretching further than they had any right to. Even the architecture of this land could not have been built without the Soul Arts. He moved up them, and kept an eye all around him. Spotting things was difficult with his helmet, and he needed to be more careful than he otherwise would have been to compensate.

It came from the side, and narrowly missed him. His enhanced body moved quickly enough to pull itself away.

The pulsating red dagger retreated, and the phantom rolled out of its hiding place between two pillars. It stood still for a moment, a glowing red figure wearing a hooded cloak, before it charged at him, wielding a dagger.

He swung his sword, but the phantom evaded easier than he had, and found an opening before he could recover. The dagger penetrated the joint in his knee. He cried out as pain burned in him, and fell to a kneel, swinging too and fro. Every time the assassin would dodge, wait for an opening, and then thrust his blade. Again and again the dagger met its mark. Blood was wrung from his body as if the knife were a spade digging up red mud. He felt himself fading as he realized that poison coated the dagger. With the number of doses he had taken, he was going to die.

He rushed forward stupidly, trying to grab the evasive demon, who stepped to the side yet again and stabbed him in the back. He had reached his limit, the poison was breaking his body. He fell to his knees, and then to his stomach. He could feel himself losing yet another body, could feel the Nexus pulling him in toward it again…

But when the hooded figure stood over him, and prepared to slit his throat, he saw one last opportunity.

He turned, his sword whirling with him, and cut through the neck of the unarmored rogue. When the sword swung around again, it cleaved the phantom's head clean off.

The red body grabbed at its stub of a neck a few times, and then fell to its knee. Crimson and black mist dissipated, flowing back into the deep fog as if it had never been separate from it. The headless body reached forward one more time, and its fingers wrapped around the Knight's neck guard, but then they too were gone, flowing back into the gap between worlds that this heinous creature had come from.

And again, he was alone.

He stood, and stumbled up the stairs before collapsing at the top of them. Everything in him throbbed, and it felt like his blood had been entirely replaced by venom. He pulled his beaver up just in time to vomit. Even after it was gone he came up in dry heaves and retches. When it finally ended, he collapsed again. His face collided with the mess that had just left him. With the last of his energy, he inched it away, until it was on dry ground. Still, his hair was plastered to him with the remnants of his breakfast.

He did not know how long he lay there.

At some point, though, his hand began to inch toward the pack on its side. And he faded out of consciousness. When he faded back, it was closer.

The movement may not have been entirely conscious, but he pulled the grass out of the pack, and moved it toward his mouth, fading in and out all the way. When it reached him, he chewed, trying to overcome the harsh texture, and finally swallowed.

His wounds evaporated as if they were liquid. The energy of life filled him and his blood ran pure.

His eyes shot open.

Carefully, he pulled himself to his feet, making sure that they could once again support him. He wiped the mess off of his face, and once again lowered his beaver. If there had been anyone else, they would have been shocked he had survived, congratulated him, acknowledged how long it had been since he had collapsed.

But there was no one.

He was alone.

He kept walking, there were no more monsters, and soon the fog was before him. It beckoned him, its wisps licking at his body like dark tongues, pulling him in.

He made sure his armor was undamaged, that his weapon was locked into his gauntlet, and then nodded.

Despite the fog's gaseous appearance, its consistency was anywhere between a liquid and a solid. He felt his entire body being pounded by something. His equilibrium popped and his ears threatened to bleed.

And just when it became completely unbearable, he was on the other side.

He stood on a bridge with a large brazier in the center. Licking flames kept the Deep Fog at bay. With nothing to do otherwise, he stepped forward.

And then he heard it roar.

A monstrosity thrice the size of the other gargoyles he had encountered flew just into his view, and then soared away. Its tail whipped around as if it were a creature in its own right.

_Well, that's bad._

The monster landed, and stomped toward him, its grotesque serpent tale swung side to side with its movements, he saw its vicious claws raise, and then strike at him.

His shield came up, but the force behind the blow was so great that it pushed his body sideways, to the edge of the bridge. His boots lost traction as they slid along the smooth stone, and he almost fell.

Another claw came, and he rolled, the monster's claw completely missing him.

He swung his sword and chopped off its tail. The beast roared in agony and spun around, blood spurting from its gaping wound. The tail hit the bridge and writhed for several moments before going still.

Again it attacked with its claws. This time it was less a series of strikes, and more a flurry. His bones rattled as his shield absorbed the force of the strikes. Then, with a single hand, it _grabbed _the edges of his shield, and lifted him of the ground.

He swung at its arm with his sword, hoping to sever it just as he had done its tail, or at least get it to let go, and he connected several times, but the swipes left nothing but scratches, in response the Maneater swung down, and beat his body against the stone. He felt his entire body rattle. It beat him again, and again, and again, relentless in its punishment. One of his legs hit the ground wrong, and he felt the bones in it shatter. He tried to suppress his cry of pain, but it came out of him, and he didn't sound like a man. The next time he hit the ground, his screams stopped abruptly as his breath left him, his head felt weak and his awareness of the world faded.

Then, he was off the ground again, rising slowly upward. With his free hand he adjusted his helmet and saw that the Maneater was flying. He also registered that he had lost his sword. So much for locked gauntlets.

They were moving slightly forward. He looked down just enough to realize that as they were flying higher, they were also flying toward the fire. It was going to carry him high, to a distance that would kill him regardless, and then drop him into a burning pit.

He had no choice. His free arm went to the buckles of his shield. He pulled on them and struggled until, finally, he managed to get one loose. An instinctive paranoia of heights struck him. His stomach begged him to do everything in his power not to fall, to grab onto the Maneater if he must, as long as he didn't plummet.

He hesitated, but fought it off. His eyes closed, and he pretended there was something soft beneath him as he removed the other buckle.

He screamed again as he fell. His body hit the stone so hard that his armor dented. Every part of him rattled yet again…except for his broken leg, which screamed with fire.

If he died now, he would face the emptiness again…the abyss of nothing…he couldn't. Anything but that, any torture, any pain, _anything._

He reached for his crossbow, and held it up. The demon was still in the air, holding his shield.

He aimed and fired.

The bolt hit the Demon's chest dead center. It roared in pain, and swooped down toward him.

He crawled backward with his elbows, dragging his leg as he loaded a second bolt. When the demon raised its claw to swipe off his face, he fired yet again, hitting it in its hand. With whimpers and roars, it still kept coming, and his back hit the brazier.

When it reached him, it reared back both his claws, and struck out.

He dropped the crossbow. Both his hands shot out and grabbed the Gargoyles wrists.

Its eyes widened in bewildered, frustrated shock. It roared at him, its spittle hitting his beaver. Its arms moved with even more strength than he had imagined as it tried to yank them free. For a moment, the thought occurred to stop fighting, to embrace it…then he heard a whisper.

_Touch the demon._

He blinked.

_I am touching it._

_ No. _came the voice. Unmistakable in its softness, _Touch the demon inside you._

He closed his eyes.

He felt the rage of the flamelurker, the false peace of the fool's idol, the confused power of the Old Hero. Others came to him, souls and existences that were now pieces of him. He felt overfull; energy stuffed his body that needed to be let out

And so he freed it.

His muscles tensed as he picked up the Maneater by its claws, and pulled it behind him. It struggled and fought, but the forces within him were too strong. His entire body felt like it was bulging. He pulled it behind him, and its face went down into the fire.

It tried to flap its wings, it struggled and squirmed. But the flames licked up its head and its body, and he held it there. Finally, it managed to flap out of his grasp, its face a charred remnant of what it had once been.

Then he heard the second roar.

_Two._

_ There are two._

He spotted it in the glow of the fire. His sword sat there on the ground. While both of the demons were out of sight, he reached over, and grabbed it. As the sword trembled, he realized how much his arm was shivering.

_I cannot afford to be afraid._

And then he pulled himself upward. His leg couldn't support his weight, and he almost gave way, but he used his arm on the brazier to secure himself, and then placed his sword in both hands.

They both landed on either side of him.

One slashed forward and he acted instantly. His sword came forward and severed its hand, which flew over his shoulder and into the fire. He barely heard the roar. His senses were too focused. He swung his sword around aiming for its neck, but caught it along the chest as it dodged. That was the one with the burned face. The other wouldn't be so slow.

Two more claws came at him, swiping in blinding speed. He didn't dodge them entirely, they cut through his armor and dug heavily into his torso, penetrating his skin, but he ignored it. Again the sword came down. This time, it connected. It dug into the Maneater's shoulder, causing one of its arms to fall limp. He then yanked it out again and swung it toward the beast's companion, readying another attack. As the blade flew through the air it caught another arm, and severed it, and kept going. The sword hit the creature directly in its burned face, and flew through the softened flesh, stopping halfway through its brain. When he withdrew it, gray matter came out with it. Another claw hit him, tore into him, he swung back. His blade became a flurry. To and fro, always in front of him, cutting, endlessly cutting. The resistance of the flesh felt like nothing anymore. The claws felt like nothing. Everything faded into the background, more cutting, more, more slicing, a vertical slash brought its entrails out, and blood leaked from its mouth, but he swung again and sliced its head in half.

Both of the Maneaters collapsed.

And he did, too.

He felt them flow into his augite. The souls, fighting the whole way, became his and he breathed heavily. Behind him, there was an archstone. He already knew. He fell onto his stomach, and dragged himself toward it, his blood leaked down into the stone.

He was long past caring how much blood he lost.

Before he reached the archstone, he stopped once, and almost faded out of consciousness. But he forcefully woke himself up, and kept pulling. His armor grinded against the floor, and, finally, panting, he touched it.

"The Nexus…" he asked. "Please…for the love of god please…The Nexus…"

And then he wasn't there anymore. There was a swirl of light, of colors.

He hit the ground.

He felt the safety, the serenity…but could go no further.

_I….I…_

The world came in and out of focus.

_I can't do this anymore…this isn't something any person should do. Not alone._

_ I can't go on…I'm sorry._

"I can't…" he murmured. And felt his own tears hitting the metal of his beaver. "I can't…I can't…"

Then he felt her hands, gentle against his skin. Their warmth filled him. His head rose, briefly, and then was on something soft.

"Shhh…." Was her whisper, nothing more.

"Thou ist strong. What hast thou accomplisheth on this day? Hmm? Thou hast slain twin beasts, each as fierce as its brother. Come now, heed me. Thou canst do much."

"No longer…I can't breathe…I can't think…no longer…." He murmured.

"Very well," she said. Still holding him in her lap. "But thou canst not exit the Nexus, and shalt be trapped here until the deep fog spreadth, and until the world is swallowed by demons."

"Better…better than this. Anything is better than this."

She nodded. She just nodded. He wanted her to argue. To fight against him. He wanted her to get angry and demand that he continue. Tell him that he was weak, that if he gave up, he was a coward.

But she never did these things. She just sat there, looking ahead blindly, and waited.

Waited for him to get back up.

-

I feel as if I may have taken too long to get the ball rolling with this. The plot is kind of fading into existence rather than starting with a hook. Oh well, there was some action here, and though it may feel like filler, I wanted to pick up where I last left off so that the first three chapters didn't feel like a series of disconnected episodes. What I hope is that this ties the first and second chapters together. And also that it picks up the pace of the story with some good, old fashioned violence.


	4. Decisions, Decisions

The next time he came back, Sage Freke was with him.

He'd wandered lonely through the corridors of the Tower of Latria once before, a second time was no harder for him. Freke was relatively easy to rescue, and when they passed through into the Nexus, the old man's eyes widened as he looked down into the darkness, following the flowing golden symbols.

"Fascinating," Freke murmured, and then shuffled down the stairs. When he reached the bottom he ran his hand along the circle.

"What is this?" Freke asked the Champion, who just shrugged.

When the mage looked disappointed, he answered, "I don't know. It was here when I was first reborn. I think it's the power that binds me to this place…along with the few others who are."

"Binds, you, you say?" Freke asked, and then answered himself. "Ahh, yes, to immortality…that's right."

"I'm not sure if Immortality is the correct word," the Champion said.

"Why, then what else would it be, lad?" Sage Freke looked back up at him. His eyes showing just under the edge of his hood, standing out like pinpricks in the darkness.

"I…honestly, I don't know," the Champion said. "But not immortality…immortality is a lack of death. Trust me, I have died. And I have paid for those deaths, every one of them."

He hadn't mentioned to the old man that he didn't remember his name, yet. He hadn't mentioned to anyone, not even the Maiden, that he had forgotten his mother's face. He remembered that he had a mother. But he didn't remember her face, and all of the other details of her had become blurry. When he tried to remember, it gave him a headache, and he had finally given up.

He was sure that, the next time he died, she would be gone.

"How does it feel to die, then?" Freke asked.

He tried to think back to that, but it was just as blurry as his mother's face.

"It was cold," was all he could say. "Painful…and then numb."

"Fascinating," Freke said, but his face went pale, and he seemed far from pleased. It was obvious by his expression that he understood his own relative proximity to death. The Champion looked away.

"Freke?"

Freke turned, and saw his apprentice, standing there.

"Ahh, m'boy. Glad to see you," Freke said, as he waddled toward him. "I assume you have been keeping up with your studies."

"Yes sir," the Apprentice said, high strung as ever. "Just as you asked."

"Excellent…excellent," Freke said, and then stopped, as suddenly as if he had realized something. "Would you mind going back and preparing my bedding? The prison cell was not the most comfortable, and my tired legs need a proper rest."

"Yes, sir. Immediately, sir." The Apprentice turned and ran back to the corner of the Nexus where he had been saying.

"I told that boy to take his training seriously once," Freke said. "I think he may have taken it too much to heart."

He then turned and looked back at the Champion.

Freke smiled and said, "there was one last thing I wanted to talk to you about. I've been doing some research into the Soul Arts, lately. Helpful research, hopefully…though I'm not sure if anything can be so these days…anyway, I see that Augite at your belt. And I know that you killed the Fool's Idol, at least."

"That I did," the Champion said.

"Excellent, well, if you could provide me with her soul, as well as the soul of any other powerful demon you defeat. I'd be sure to make it worth your while. Teach you some of the best magic at my disposal, perhaps?"

"I'm not much of a mage," he said.

"Ah-ah-ah," Freke waved a finger quickly. "That's why we call them the Soul Arts, boy. It's a simple matter of how many souls you're willing to spend. Trust me, even a simple Soul Arrow can be a lifesaver in circumstances such as these…but I do not even teach "simple" soul arrows…no, my magic is potent, and it will make a difference for you in many fights."

The Champion hesitated, "…I'll consider it."

Freke sighed. "Very well, you know where to find me…not like there's anywhere to go in this bloody, place, anyway."

He waddled off, toward his corner.

"May God watch over us, and grant us holiness in our every step,"

"_Umbasa_._"_

"May we, His followers, be forever protected,"

_"Umbasa."_

"And may we understand, that, though a horrible storm this is, that, in God's Divine eye, it is a storm we shall weather. Nay, not just weather, but expose it for the test that it is. God grants miracles, and god grants wishes, and so He-oh, you."

Saint Urbain looked up, and saw the champion approaching. His followers, kneeling before him , opened their eyes, and looked up as well.

"Hello," said the Champion, awkwardly.

"Ahh, yes, then, you are here," Saint Urbain looked down at his followers, and nodded to them. "I apologize, but he is the one facing the situation in Boletaria, and he deserves my blessing most of all."

"That won't be necessary, Urbain," the Champion said.

"Oh, but it is," Urbain said. "And tragically so, for your immortal soul is in jeopardy. "

_Here we go._

"Understand that I know why you make the choices you do," Urbain went on. "Granted, they're necessary….but I do wish that you didn't hold onto those Demons' souls."

"What would you prefer?" The Champion asked.

"Prefer…? Well…preferably…you could give them to me." Saint Urbain said. "And I could _destroy _them using God's power."

"Destroy them?" The Knight asked.

Urbain nodded. "It…is a rarely used procedure, often considered sinful in its own right, for the soul of any being is sacred. However, there is nothing sacred about these…these creatures. They each symbolize a human depravity, in some way. Keep that in mind, and if you were to absorb them, you would absorb that depravity as well."

"I'll keep that in mind…but for now, I apologize, I will hang on to them."

Urbain's disappointment could not be hidden, still, he reluctantly murmured, "…very well," and left it at that.

"Why did you come, then, son?" Urbain asked.

"I was just hoping to pray…perhaps God has fortune left over for me, as well," he said.

"Very well then," Urbain said. "For you need it most of all. Kneel, and join in."

Afterward, Urbain spoke again.

"I saw you talking to Sage Freke," he said, as the Champion stood.

"And?"

"And, do not trust him," Urbain said. "That man's lust for souls was potent even before Boletaria collapsed, but now that it has…well, there may be little in the way of decency holding him back. I'm sure you've seen such things before."

"Yes," the Champion said, thinking of all the Black Phantoms he'd seen. How they looked so very similar to humans.

"I only have this to say: The Soul Arts are an ugly thing. Boletaria used them, and look what happened. Truly, it is god's punishment. It is a shame that the rest of the world may have to be punished with it."

"Indeed," The Champion said, considering the priest's easy rationale for the death of thousands.

"Very well then. Go forth, and may your sword be blessed to slay many demons. Umbasa."

"Umbasa," the Champion repeated.

He crossed up the curved steps. Perhaps thinking of asking the Maiden or the Monumental, but the Maiden was nowhere in sight, and the Monumental only awaited atop a mountain of stairs.

He wondered as he climbed why the Monumentals had built the Nexus this way. It seemed strange for them to place themselves so physically high up when they themselves were no longer capable of moving.

But before he reached the top, he heard a familiar voice.

"Hello."

He turned. Standing there, cleaning a hook shaped blade, was Yurt, the Silent Chief.

The Champion turned. "Yurt," he said. "A pleasure to see you here."

"A pleasure to be here, my friend. It feels good to be able to stretch my limbs without them being torn at by Gargoyles," Yurt said. "Speaking of Demons…well, will you judge me?"

"I don't judge easy," he said. Currently, that was the problem.

"Very well," and Yurt stepped to the side. Tied to a pillar, and gagged, was a familiar bald man.

"That's Patches, the Hyena," the Champion said.

"Is it, now? Fitting," Yurt said, and the Champion realized he wasn't cleaning the blade, he was sharpening it. "This one thought it would be a fine idea to rob me. I considered just scaring him, and leaving it at that, but I realized that I'd rather ask the question, first: what is he to you?"

Patches looked over at The Champion and made desperate murmuring sounds.

"Well…" The Champion began, recalling. "He first tried to send me to be smashed by a gigantic rock-beetle. He then kicked me into a pit where I had to fight a Black Phantom to escape."

"I see. Sounds quite charming," Yurt said, glancing over at Patches. Whose murmurs became more desperate, and then became screams as the hook blade came closer.

"…But…you should probably let him go," The Champion said.

Yurt glanced at him. The blade hung limply from his wrist, "Why?"

Beneath the gag, Patches screamed.

"There are so few of us left, Yurt. Even a scoundrel is better than a dead soundrel," the Champion said.

"Really, now?" Yurt said.

"Really."

"Well…I beg to differ."

And with that, he swung the hook blade so that it pierced directly into Patches neck, and pulled. Blood stained the rope, his clothes, and the floor, and then still kept coming. Patches struggled for a few seconds, but could make no sound, and then suddenly stopped writhing.

There was a pause.

"What the hell did you just do?" the Champion asked.

"Simple. I killed a man who attempted to kill you, twice," Yurt said, and then seamlessly transitioned to actually cleaning his blade.

"You shed blood in the _Nexus._" The Champion said. "There are people downstairs _praying._"

"Then they need not know of this," Yurt said. "It is, after all, none of their business. Just a matter between the three of us we had to settle, is all."

"I asked you _not _to kill him."

"Yes, you did. However you'll find I'm quite an independent being, and capable of making my own choices. Now, I'm going to wrap the body up and use one of the archstones to dump it. I'm sure no one will suspect anything."

"I'm going to be sick…"

"And why?" Yurt asked.

The Champion looked at him, "what?"

"I said, why? How many fights to the death have you been in? How many times have you had to slay something just as alive as this man?"

"This was different, you killed him in cold blood," the Champion said, trying not to look at the body.

"Really? And how _does _that make it different? Cold blood, warm blood, a man is a man and death is death, no matter how you kill him." Yurt finished wiping his blade. "The question that _you _should ask yourself is such: is death really so bad? After all, it comes to everyone, sooner or later. If I kill a man, I'm not _really _killing him; he was sentenced to death from birth. I'm just…shortening his lifespan, significantly. And many people, my friend, need their lifespans shortened. For many, it's the best way."

"That's…that's awful. Please, just…let me step aside, I wasn't expecting-"

"You've never killed a man before, have you?" Yurt asked, very suddenly.

"What?"

Yurt placed the hook sword back at his belt, "I mean to say: you've only slain demons. You've never killed a man."

"I killed Phantoms."

"Not the same. They are monsters."

"I can't talk about this right now," The Champion said. "I'm sorry."

"You really haven't, then. My sincerest apologies. I thought you would have been ready. I will take care of everything, from here on out. Rest assured though: he would have killed you without hesitation. He tried twice. I did you a favor today."

"Yes…" The Champion said. "Yes, I…I guess you did."

He then backed away, and Yurt watched him as he did. With nowhere else to go, he continued up the stairs.

He didn't know. He just didn't know.

Freke wanted the Demons' Souls. Urbain wanted the Demon's Souls. Freke offered his spells, Urbain, later, had offered Miracles. Both made good points, and both hated the other. (he had noticed the way in which Freke had looked toward the Priests coner). Yurt, whom he had brought here, had killed a man in cold blood. But that had been a man who had tried to kill him. He seemed to almost have done it out of loyalty. He had never killed someone before, was he biased, was he unbiased? He still couldn't remember his mother's face. After all this, he'd have to go out into the fog again. He didn't want to go there. He wanted to stay in the Nexus forever, where there were no Demons.

When he finally reached the top of the steps, he wandered into the gallery of Monumentals. Rows and rows of dead stone children surrounded him. When he finally reached the Monumental, he looked to him, and said, "I don't know what to do."

"Kill demons, and purify this world," the monumental repeated.

"But that's not enough…there are people…and people, they're complicated. I don't understand who is right or wrong."

"Go with what you feel inside of yourself, then. Make the choice that you would make, and live without regrets."

"But _I don't know the Choice that I would make!_" He screamed out in frustration. His yell echoed throughout the large room.

The monumental was silent. With his empty expression, it seemed, for a second, that the Champion really was just talking to a statue. That his roar had scared the soul right out of the stone figure.

"That is a strange thing to say," was all the Monumental said.

"Not if you're me, it isn't…it's the only thing that makes sense. I don't remember anything. I don't remember who I am. It'd be one thing if the memories were gone all at once…but they're fading, as I keep dying, as I keep existing as a soul. I just want to remember things. I want to know what it was like to be a child. I want to be able to think back to past decisions, and know what's right _now _because of them, but I can't do any of that! I'm trapped here, not even as a person, but as a _shell!_"

"The longer you stay in your soul form," the monumental said. "The more of yourself you will lose. It will slowly leak away from you, as if it is blowing away into the breeze, without a body to hold it there. Soon, there will be nothing left of you but a consumable soul. That kind that others can use to make themselves stronger."

"And you…you didn't warn me about this…?" The Champion asked.

"Why warn you?" The Monumental said. "When you came here, you had already died. It was better just to be grateful that you were alive, at the time. Worry about you losing yourself could come later."

"And I guess it finally has," the Champion said.

"Yes, yes it has."

"Did I…introduce myself to you?" he asked. "Did I ever tell you my name?"

"I'm sorry," the Monumental said, and shook its head.

"Damn it…damn it! I don't even know who I am. I don't know what choice the real me would make here…there isn't even a real me anymore. I'm the real me. And I have no idea who I am."

"It happens to the best of us. To the very best it happens again," the Monumental said.

"Just explain to me, what can I do…please?" the Champion said.

"After all this is over, I can promise you your identity back," the Monumental said with absolute certainty.

The Champion nodded listlessly.

"That is the best that I can do," the Monumental said. "I'm sorry."

"Alright...well, at least there's something I should work for."

"Yes…is that all?"

"Yes, that will be all, thank you for your time."

"I am not short on it," the Monumental said. "Of all the resources we have left, time is our most impressive supply."

"I'll remember that," he said, and then left the Monumental's chambers.

On the way back down the stairs, he saw her, lighting the candles up along them with her strange, glowing staff. He stood, and watched her as she delicately bent the rod, placing its sigil in just the right place at the tip of the Wicker. He wondered to himself how practiced this motion must be for a blind woman. How long it had gotten her to get it right, and even now, how cautiously she did it, as if she still wasn't certain.

"Hello," he said to her, just as she finished lighting the candle. He didn't want to startle her into making an unfortunate mistake.

She turned to him, and smiled, "ah, tis thee."

"Yes, it's me…" he said, and felt awkward. "Ugh…sorry. I'm just thinking about a lot of things. I'm confused. That's all."

"I see," was all she said. "Wouldst thou care to assist me in my labors? I am not as practiced at this part of the Nexus, and fear I may fall."

He looked down. She was talking about falling hundreds of feet, and still speaking calmly even as she said it.

"Yes," he said.

So he went back up the stairs with her, assisting her in putting her staff in the right place and in watching the flames grow. Light filled the dark Nexus, and he realized that without the hundreds, maybe thousands, of candles throughout this place, tiny, starry pinpricks, it'd be nightmarishly dark.

"Do you keep _all _of these lit?" he asked.

She nodded, "for a time now, yes."

"How long of a time?"

"I doth not count the years."

"But long," he said.

She nodded.

"And your blindness is never a problem?" he asked.

"Once," she said. "It was, but it hath grown with me. And the layout of the Nexus hath grown in beneath mine skin, beneath mine sight. I now knowst these corridors and stairwells as much as thee knowst thy mother."

That stung. He didn't say anything.

"But it must have been hard, at first," he said.

"Yes, but all wanderst in the dark," she said. "Mine journey ist more apparent than most."

"That's true, I guess," he said.

"Dost thou guess?" she asked him.

"No…I think so. I'm not sure," he corrected.

"Ah. Well if thou doth not agree, perhaps I thinkst wrong. It ist not a question for one such as I, after all, a simple Candle Maiden."

"No…well, first off, you aren't just a simple Candle Maiden," he said. "Second, I don't know. I don't know what I should know…I don't remember anything about myself anymore. I lost it when I lost my body the first time, or the second time…I don't even remember which time it was."

"Ah," was all she said.

"Is there anything you can do? Can you use Souls to bring it back?"

"Tragically, no," she said.

He sighed.

"But thou ist not thy memories," she said.

"What?"

"Thou ist more than just thy remembrances. Thou ist what thou decideth. And that may takest time. But threat not, for thy soul is the purest white. I have seen it within thee, and the white soul ist strong above all others."

"And the white soul is the soul of the Demon Slayer," he said.

"Yes, so it beith," she said. "And so do not fear, for thou ist brave, as I have said before. And thy will is strong, as I have said before. Make thy decisions, and live thy life, and fret not thy identity. _Live._"

_Live._

He walked with her, helping her light the candles. Once, she wandered close to the edge, and he caught her. She simply smiled at him, and went on with her duties, as if a threat on her life had not been made.

And around the corners, from behind the shadows, Yurt, the Silent Chief, watched them.

-

Well, here we go. If you're still reading at this point, you like it, so keep it going! Review please, let me know how much you want it. I was honestly going to drop this, given all my other writing projects, until an email hit me letting me know that someone was actually enjoying it.

I've never been particularly popular on these sites, honestly, and my writing is never usually too popular anywhere. I've had occasions where my stories have hit hard, but afterward they've been quickly forgotten. Still, I keep throwing stuff out there hoping something will stick. That's how writing as a career works after all.

Not that I'm expecting this to get me anything, this is fanfiction after all. But I feel like so much of the Demon's Souls universe is untapped, that I have to do it this much justice. I feel like nobody else really does. Too many people who care about story ignore this game, and too many people who care about gameplay ignore story. There are very popular video series describing different lore elements of its spiritual successor, Dark Souls, which, IMO: has the worse story/world between the two. As opposed to Demon's Souls, it's murky and convoluted, and the characters (other than Solaire) are not as interesting.

Anyway, enough of my soapbox. Hope you enjoyed it.


	5. The Witch in the Tower

Traveling through the archstone made it feel as if his body had been incinerated, and was now rising again out of nothing. He passed through solids and lights as if they were one in the same, and then stood again, reborn at his destination.

The sky was grey, as was the stone beneath his feet.

He had arrived at a miniature town, a plaza hidden behind castle walls. Who had lived here? Had they been only elite nobles, or refugees running from the demonic invasion as well? The latter seemed more likely, given that the bridge leading to this place had been littered with carts, human remains, and dead horses.

It was tragic, then, that there was no safety behind these walls.

He turned a corner and saw it: a pile of burned corpses lying on top of each other. Some of them were shaped like men, some like women…others like children. There were too many, far too many, they grabbed the ground as if in lieu of anything else, the solid surface on their feet would protect them. They shielded one another and sacrificed themselves and ultimately had their loved ones slain anyway.

And the smell hit him, too. A smell like burned meat but infinitely more foul. Everything in him told him that this was wrong. He wanted to cover his nose, but his helmet prevented his hand from reaching his face, and he bent over with powerful coughs as he tried not to vomit.

When he looked up, he saw a large, horned wolf. It tore a chunk of flesh from a burnt body, then looked toward him, and growled.

Another growl joined in from his right, and it became a chorus. He turned, and saw two more wolves approaching from the side, their fur bristling and their eyes flashing red as they advanced on him. There was a fourth somewhere, he couldn't see it.

He drew his sword.

The first Wolf jumped at him, and he caught it mid-lunge with his blade, cutting into its mouth and then through the back of it, and nearly severing its jaw from its skull. It whimpered and crumpled against him.

The second wolf tackled him from behind. He managed to keep standing, but it wrapped itself around his body. Its claws scratched against him while its powerful jaws held onto his neck guard and crushed it.

He thrust his elbow into the wolf's gut and it fell off him, onto its back. Before he could turn and run it through a third came at him from the side and grabbed his arm. A fourth grabbed his leg and pulled, toppling him.

And then they were mauling him, tearing at his body and ripping his armor away. At first he swung his sword, but soon he was flailing. Two of the wolves grabbed his arms, while the third grabbed his chest in its jaws, biting through his cuirass.

He screamed and kicked the wolf aside with his leg. His right arm came up, and the wolf on it collided with the one on his left. Again, whimpers. He twisted his sword, to remind himself that it was there, and then cut through one of the beast's necks. When another came he stabbed the sword through its eye, and then kicked its body off of the blade. He swung blindly and caught the third, nearly cutting it in half.

But the growling hadn't stopped, there were more. He pulled on his sword, but it wouldn't come free from the third wolf's body. He panicked, putting his foot on the demon and jerking on the sword until it finally came loose.

When he turned, weapon ready, he saw nothing more than carts, sitting there, with wolves in them. The beasts roared, and bashed themselves against the bars, but could not escape.

He sheathed his sword, then reconsidered, and drew it again.

To the left there was a long, wide set of steps going upwards toward a massive gate. Conspicuous, obvious, and easy to trap. Directly in front of him, however there was a tempting alley.

His choice was obvious. He went into the alley.

After walking down the shaded alcove for a few minutes, he found an unusual sight.

Lying on the ground, marked up with the teeth of wolves, was the body of one of the bloated ministers. They were foul, fat things that looked almost exactly like humans. He had been told that they had appeared at the king's side just before the coming of the deep fog. Even in death, the creature still carried its disturbing smile.

He kicked it, once, just to see if the face would show any signs of impact. It didn't.

He imagined what it was like, in the days before the attack, to see these things walking amongst humans as if there was nothing wrong. It made him shiver.

But he kept going.

The end of the alley gave way to the bridge over a seemingly bottomless gorge, and at its end, there was a tower. The architecture fascinated him, and he again reminded himself that this was possible with the help of the soul arts. He crossed the bridge, and at the other side reached the tower, only to realize that there was no door.

He stood there for a few seconds, feeling like a moron, before a strange, laughing voice shouted down, "who goes there?"

"It's I," he said. "A weary traveler. Allow me to enter."

There was no answer.

_Of course. _The speaker was one of the ministers. He wasn't going let him in.

He heard the slide of a panel, and managed to see an eyehole in the tower, watching him, just before it closed.

_They can see me._

He looked back at the dead demon, lying in the alleyway.

When an unusually skinny official entered the tower, it was in no way cause for alarm. Though it was most certainly strange.

Now, when he pulled out a sword and stabbed the guard in the back; that was far more than strange. It was enough to convince the official to run for his weapon. Not that he reached it, of course. His stomach was cut open and spilled like an overripe melon.

And the very unusual minister changed his clothes again, grimacing at the scratchy seams and uncomfortable smells of his disguise as he removed it.

From above, a set of eyes watched him as he changed. The shirt came up over his head, and webs of scars ran along the back of it, weaving into each other and writing a horrid tale of pain. When he turned, the watcher saw his face. His deep, powerful eyes, his high cheekbones, and his full lips. His face was hard and sharp like a dagger, and his blonde hair fell over it like a golden hilt.

When he looked up, though, no one was there.

"Hello?" he said, now back in his armor.

He climbed the ladder to the top floor.

"Hello, is there even anyone in here?"

_It wasn't a waste, regardless. I killed two demons._

"Hello?" he repeated, as he reached the top.

He looked over the edge, and saw a figure, sitting there, in the darkness.

Before he could get any words out, a woman's voice spoke, "go away."

"Are you a prisoner? I'm here to free you."

"That's exactly what shouldn't happen, leave."

But he didn't, he climbed to the top of the ladder and to his feet, and looked at her. "You have an unusual way of showing gratitude."

There was a pause.

"…thank you."

"Well, better late than never, I'd suppose," he said.

"But thank you…only because the horrors that would have been visited upon me are unspeakable, not thank you for freeing me. This is where I belong. I've…I've accepted my place."

He scratched the back of his neck, and felt his fingers failing to pierce through his armor. "Your place is to be locked up in a tower by Demons?"

"We reap what we sow…" she said.

"I don't know what you've done," he said. "Honestly, I don't care. I'm trying to find as many survivors as possible, and you're one of them."

There was a deep silence, but he didn't stop it. It was there, inevitable, like a chasm he had to cross to speak with her.

Then he saw her shiver, slightly. At least, it started that way, it ended as a series of shakes wracking her entire body, with her grabbing at herself in attempts to still them.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"N-nothing…thank you…I'm sorry. I don't deserve to be rescued…but if you feel you have to, then fine. Go on ahead. I'll head back on my own."

"You will?"

"Yes…I…" she tried to get up, but instead fell.

He rushed forward to help her.

"I can't get up…my legs are too weak…they barely even fed me. Please, please help me get up," she said.

He put his arm under hers and pulled her to her feet. It was easy. Too easy. She was so lightweight that it made him uncomfortable. He looked down at her, now that he was close enough to see. A skinny woman wearing ragged clothes with a pointed hat. Her face was dirty, but beneath it he saw a mousy timidity and gentleness in her eyes.

"What's your name?" he asked, as he lifted her up.

"Yuria," she said.

"Yuria...alright, I'm going to have to carry you, is that okay?"

Another silent pause, and then she said, "…okay."

"It's not to demean you or anything, it's just…you can't walk."

"No, no…I understand."

He walked toward the ladder, holding her, and she seemed worried at first, she even started to argue, but with her in one arm and the other wrapped around the side of the ladder, he shimmied down it, to the lowest floor, and then walked down the steps.

"You've been using the Soul Arts," she said.

"Yes, I have," he said in return.

She said nothing else on that topic.

He brought her down to the bridge, and they started crossing it.

"What's your name?" she asked him.

"I…" he hesitated. He wanted her to pick up on that hesitation, to change the topic, but she didn't say anything.

"I don't have one anymore," he finished.

"I see. I'm sorry to hear that," she said.

"It's alright. It's difficult, sometimes, but…it's alright. Especially given everything else that's happened, there are people worse off."

"I'd assume so."

"What were you doing in that tower?"

"The same thing everyone from Boletaria is doing, either hiding or imprisoned. Miranda was the one who caught me."

"Miranda?"

"Executioner Miranda, pray that you never run into her. She was bloodthirsty before, but the fog has robbed her of whatever mind she once had. Now there's nothing left of her but her cruelty and her loyalty to the king."

"Didn't the fog steal a lot of people's minds?" he asked.

"Very, very many. The soldiers you've probably encountered…they were all human once. The wolves that wander through these streets were once dogs. Most demons aren't just created as monsters…they're the corrupted form of beings that were already there."

"What about these things?" he asked, as he passed the dead Minister again. Now naked, the creature's fat hung over its grotesque body and went down to the knees of its stubby tree-trunk legs.

She grimaced, and looked even more sickened, "no, not them. There's nothing about those things that was ever good."

"Alright," he said, as they passed through alley. "I'm taking you back to the Nexus…but…we have to pass by something…hold your nose."

"Hold my…? Oh _god._"

They passed by the bodies again, and her hand immediately went to her nose. Again, he could not do the same. The foul scent of burned human flesh made him want to react in a myriad of ways, but he resisted the temptation, and kept walking.

The Nexus came to them as if they'd woken from a terrible nightmare. The golden symbols on its surface faded into being, and for a moment, he thought he almost understood them, but then that brief comprehension was gone.

"…Is there food here?" Yuria asked.

"Yes, plenty," he said.

"Good…I'd prefer to walk now, if that's alright."

"I understand," he said, as he slowly lowered her to her feet. She removed her hand from his shoulder. When his support was entirely removed, she stumbled, and he reached out to catch her, but her feet stayed true, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

She stood, and looked back at him, "I'm sorry if I worried you. It's just…it's hard to walk when so much of myself has been worn away."

"I understand that," he said, and he did.

She negotiated her way down the steps. At every stumble he almost caught her, but she managed to maintain herself until the bottom.

"I'm sorry, but…where is the food?" She asked.

"Oh, right," he said, and fled to Stockpile Thomas. The crates behind the man were filled with all manner of preserved edibles. Thomas said nothing to him as he ran past and grabbed fruit and dried meat from some of the food crates. He then turned and ran to Yuria, who didn't seem to have expected him to be back so quickly.

"Thank you," she said, with as much surprise as gratitude.

He shrugged, "no need for thanks. Food is to be eaten, after all."

"Yes, I guess it is," she said, smiling, and then sat down in her corner, and began to do so.

"In time, we can talk again, if you truly wish to," she said. "But for now I must tend to myself. And probably sleep. I'd imagine you're busy as well."

The Champion nodded, and turned.

"Goodbye," he said to Yuria, before crossing the Nexus.

She tried to restrain her hungry impulses, but couldn't. Soon, she was engulfing the meal, swallowing it down in huge bites.

And above, Yurt, the Silent Chief, watched.

But of course, he _always _watched, and this was no surprise. What would have been surprising was the observer sitting far lower, listening rather than watching, for she had no eyes that could see.

The Maiden in Black listened to the entirety of Yuria's conversation with her Champion, and then she stood, solemnly. She remained completely still for a moment, maybe two, her empty face showing nothing that a mortal could recognize as emotion. Then she took a step upstairs, followed by another. She lit the candles with her rod, and pondered not on the Earthly concerns which had, for a moment, stirred her.

-

There'll be more with Yuria, trust me.

I'm juggling this and the actual novel that I'm writing, and college will be starting up again soon. Updates may become slow. But don't worry, I intend to finish this.


	6. Nexus Politics

In the days that followed, he spent more time talking to Yuria.

She'd be happy to see him, but she also always seemed slightly nervous. Her eyes would follow him closely as he came and went. When he sat down before her, she'd give a slight smile, but only a slight one.

She told him about Old Boletaria, and he learned a lot from her. The other survivors were either from high society or travelers from far away. Stockpile Thomas was the only one contrary to this, but he had been a simple farmer, and he knew nothing about the world aside from the family and home that he had fled.

Yuria, however, knew all sorts of things. She had been in Boletaria a long time, apparently, and she had traveled throughout it. She'd seen the Valley of Defilement, the Isle of Storms, the Land of the Giants, and many other places that the Archstones didn't lead.

"Is it really true?" he asked her. "That they'd consume human souls the same way a man drinks water? Honestly, it's almost sickening."

"Yes, they did…but be careful in how you condemn them," she said.

"Me?" he asked. "I'm using these souls because I have to. How else am I supposed to defeat Demons?"

"And how else were they supposed to build their houses?" she asked. "How were they supposed to feed their families or fight off the vile animals that attacked them by night? That's what they would have said. I think it's what many of them would still say, even after seeing what has happened."

He was silent, after that.

Generally, their conversations flowed very well, better than any he'd had with anyone else since arriving here. She was sometimes timid, but other times she would speak very plainly, and he began to realize that one had to do with the other. Within her there was something almost fierce, but she hid it behind sighs and hesitation. He saw it, sometimes, when she turned her head the right way, or when she thought he wasn't watching.

It intrigued him.

So he'd talk to her more, and soon his hand felt hers, once, gently. His grip solidified, however, when she didn't fight it, and when she instead gripped back, a relief took him then, and his hand intertwined with hers.

Everyone else in the Nexus could see it, after a while. Everyone except the Maiden in Black. But she heard it, in their tones as they spoke and in the words they chose to exchange. As time went on, she slowly began to stop having conversations with her Champion, and eventually she would only speak to him when he desired to improve himself using the Souls. She said nothing, but began to spend more time lighting, and re-lighting the candles, even when they were burning strong.

Her Champion did not notice, however, he continued on, and while he still fought, he began to spend more and more time inside the Nexus. He began to grow more articulate. His identity began to reshape again, and he started to heal.

One day, when his senses had almost entirely returned to him, he asked Yuria, "How did you come to travel so much?"

"I could not stay anywhere too long. It was…necessary," she said.

"Why?"

She looked away, and he thought she wasn't going to answer.

"The truth is, I'm no ordinary woman. I am a mage."

"…like Freke."

She shook her head, "No, not at all like Freke. I practice a very different art from his."

"How?"

She took a deep breath, "Truthfully? I am a Witch."

"But I still don't understand the difference."

"It's very easy to explain," she said. "Freke's power comes from human souls. It's the result of human potential. Mine…however…my power comes from Demon's Souls."

"But how could you draw power from Demons before the fog? Weren't there no Demons?"

"There are always Demons," she said. She looked up at the Candle Maiden, wandering up and down the stairs. "She was always here, wasn't she?"

He remembered his conversation with the Maiden about Demons.

"How do you define what a Demon is?" he asked her.

"That is an ugly truth," she said. "Do you want to hear it?"

"I've seen many ugly things. Ugly truths will not do me any worse."

"Alright then," she said. "As far as I can tell, any human who has consumed enough souls becomes a Demon…they often mutate, become a being that looks nothing like what they once were. They were all humans once, those Demons that you fight."

"I knew this…" he said.

"Oh…well, when a soul is corrupted. When it has both consumed a plethora of other souls, and turned pure black…that is when I can use it for my magic. Then and only then."

"So your power feeds off of evil," he said.

"It is nourished and energized by it. Evil is its very source," she bowed her head in shame. "And now you understand why I deserve my punishment. Why I must be allowed to suffer. I am an abomination. Everything about me is," she said.

"If you are, though, then I am as well," he said to her.

"No…you aren't as low as me. No one is…" she said.

He didn't want to argue with her, so she left her at that. And he knew as he looked at her that nothing could dissuade her from her self-loathing.

Instead, he put his arms around her, and he held her. She seemed shocked at first, but then she accepted his grasp, and melted into it.

On another day, he asked her, "what do you think of the other people in the Nexus?"

She seemed surprised by the question, and it was a while before she answered, "…Stockpile Thomas is very kind." She said. "I think he may be naïve, but he's a kind man. Probably purer than anyone else here in that simplicity. I hope that, if this world is saved, people like him take control of it…rather than people like us."

"That makes a lot of sense," he said.

She nodded. "I won't even approach Saint Urbain…you do understand that he'll try to kill me, right?"

"I'm not sure about that, Urbain is a good man…"

"He's a well-intentioned man…but he knows evil when he sees it, and if your goal is to remove evil from this Earth, then here I am," she raised her arms to indicate herself.

"True enough…" and it _was _true. He'd felt Urbain's ire as well. The Priest was kind enough, but he disapproved of the soul arts, of magic in particular. She really did have every right to fear him.

"Sage Freke, I'm not as sure about," she said. And as she said this she looked over at the old man, who sat across the room from them. "He's never been unfriendly…he did ask to experiment on me, once, when you were away."

"_Experiment _on you?"

"Yes…well, you understand; Freke is trying to learn more about demonic power, and that is entirely what I possess. He claimed it wouldn't have been too invasive…but I was worried by the look in his eyes, and I turned him down."

"What look? What was it like?" he asked her.

"…I don't know. I…had an uneasy feeling. Freke is very eager. Perhaps it's my bias, I've seen that same eagerness in my fellow Witches, I've seen it in myself…it never led anywhere good."

"You're very insightful when it comes to people," he said to her.

"I've had to be. Witches need to know how likely someone is to hang them."

He nodded, "with that insight…I want to know: what do you think of the Candle Maiden?"

She frowned at the mention of the Maiden, and with his improved Perception and more 'whole' persona, he was beginning to understand why. "Alas, I'm experienced with the whims of humans…not of demons."

"But are they truly so different?"

"They differ by degrees," Yuria said. "And she…I believe that she's as alien as a Demon can be. Though you wouldn't know it by looking at her…most of the monsters that you have fought and killed are more human than she is."

He looked up, and again saw The Maiden in Black lighting the candles along the stairs.

"But I do wonder some things about her. I wonder them often, in fact," Yuria said.

"Like what?"

"…First off, I know that you can't see it. But she is immensely powerful. This may shock you…but: I believe that she could kill everyone in the Nexus in an instant. Without breaking a sweat. Furthermore, most of those Demons that you struggle with? That you almost die fighting?...she could kill them, too. Again, just as easily. Yet…"

"Yet…she's blind," he said.

"You do know that she doesn't have to be?" Yuria asked.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that she could remove that wax from her eyes as easily as you could unsheathe your sword. I could, if it was on me, and my powers do not even begin to match hers."

He watched the Maiden as she lit one last candle, then carefully rotated her rod upright and continued down the steps.

He turned back to Yuria. "I…have to think on that. Also, I need to go back out, I've been in the Nexus too long, I'm not doing my job."

"I understand…be careful," Yuria said.

He nodded, and turned away, but as he did she seemed to remember something.

"Wait," she called out.

He turned.

"There was one last person I wanted to talk to you about…I've seen you with that man, the one who hides behind pillars."

"Yurt," he said.

She grimaced; then nodded, "Yurt, the Silent Chief, is a murderer. Since he came to Boletaria, he's killed many people…heroes among them. I don't know what his motives are…but he's a danger; a grave one…his soul is blacker than any I've ever seen."

He felt shivers coming over him as she said it, and he remembered how easily Yurt had killed Patches, how he had justified it.

"Please watch out for him…please," she said.

He nodded, and turned away again.

"I can't bear the thought of any harm coming to you."

Beneath his armor, the red that rose to his cheeks and then throughout his body could not be seen. Every organ in his abdomen rose, and then lowered, and his fingers clenched.

He should have said something else then, anything. In the days that would come, he would curse himself for remaining silent.

But that was the choice that he made, and with a simple nod, he stepped away from her.

"Hello, Yurt," he said to the dark-armored man leaning against the pillar.

"Hello, my friend," Yurt said.

"I have a question…"

"Yes?"

"What did you do, to end up in that cage, I mean…you told me that the Demons had you there, but…were you there before the Demons came?"

"I was."

He took a sudden step back.

Yurt looked up at him, maybe he was smiling beneath his helmet, "why so startled? I have never once lied to you. I told you I am here to slay demons, and I am. It is what I have always done."

"You don't end up in a cage hanging over a bottomless pit for slaying Demons," the Knight said.

Yurt chuckled. "You can…I'm sure you've realized by now how ambiguous the difference between man and Demon is. Some people simply…place that line at a different point. There were many in Old Boletaria who were sinners, of that I'm sure you have no doubt. Consuming human souls so freely and fervently? It's disgusting."

"So," he said, drawing his blade, and observing it. "It was necessary for someone to step in."

"You _killed _people," the Champion said.

"I killed practicioners of the Soul Arts. If there had been more people like me in this Kingdom, the Deep Fog would not have descended."

"You don't know that."

"Oh but I do," said Yurt. "The Old One does not come for no reason…no. Did you know the truth? It must be summoned. Willingly."

"…what?" he asked, quietly. Again he felt his insides squirming.

"Yes. Someone in this kingdom _chose _to bring the Old One down upon us. They figured out how to do it, and they used the _Soul Arts _to do so."

"But the Old One came…it came because-" he stammered.

"Because it was awakened. The Old One was asleep. It had been for a thousand years, maybe longer. How it was put to sleep, I have not the faintest idea. But I do know that anyone with sufficient powers in the Soul Arts can awaken it…and you've seen the results of that. An entire kingdom, dead, and the fog spreading to the rest of the world."

There was a pause, and then the Champion nodded.

"So our plan must be twofold," Yurt said. "Surely we must slay the Demons, surely we must find some way to destroy the Old One…if that can even be done…if it can't be, put it to sleep, I suppose…but we must also eliminate the Soul Arts entirely. We must remove all mention of them from history, and we must prevent this from ever happening again."

"I understand, Yurt," the Champion said. "Believe me…I do. But…no more killing, please. We're trying to survive here. We can't afford to draw swords on each other.

There was a pause. Yurt stared him down, and he prepared to be attacked. His hand drifted slowly over to the hilt of his sword-

"Alright," Yurt said. "I will assist you…but no more killing."

"None," the Champion repeated.

"None," Yurt said.

He breathed a deep sigh of relief.

And then he heard the fight.

"You're a sinner who practices in the powers of _sin!"_ Urbain yelled at Freke.

"And you need to think up insults that are less redundant," the Sage shot back. "Perhaps you would if you had educated yourself instead of hiding behind books filled with lies that demand _faith _to explain their inconsistencies."

"I _need _none of my own wit, for God is at my side-"

"-Oh, and here we go," Freke said. "Here comes the scripture."

"-_And God, why, he is a being of infinite wisdom," _Urbain was practically screaming. His voice could be heard breaking._ "Praise him for he will replace my weak arms with his full ones. Praise him with a name that transcends the heavens and reaches beyond all that we know: Umbasa."_

"Your god _has _no arms!" Freke shouted, and then moved in close to him, almost whispering. "Do you know what it _really_ is that you worship? _Do you!?_"

"_The Unbeliever shall speak lies into your ears. He shall whisper with the Demon's tongue. But have faith my children, and do not listen. For your God is the true God, as evidenced by the Miracles he hath granted you, and this world a mere test, to prove that you shall not falter-"_

"Do you want me to show you how weak your miracles truly are?" Freke asked, and as he did his right hand began to glow blue. "Because surely, if your god _did _love you, he wouldn't let you be slain by a petty mage."

Urbain hesitated at that, and just as his face began to shift toward a deep rage, the kind of rage that results in violence, a voice shouted out, "_enough!_"

They both looked up, and saw the Champion there, standing on the stairs and looking down at them. He rushed downward as quickly as his armored legs could carry him, and then stood between the Saint and the Sage.

"You will both stand down," he said, with more confidence than he felt. "The Nexus is a place of peace, and it will remain so."

They remained still for a moment. Urbain opened his mouth again and began to recite a scripture. He didn't get the first word out before the Champion interrupted him.

"_No!_" He said. "_No more of that!_"

Urbain's face turned a red so bright that it was hard to believe he was still human, he looked away from Freke, and straight at The Champion. The pure intensity in his gaze silenced him.

"I had hope for you," Urbain said. "You understood that the powers of Demons were evil, you understood that even as you used them. Yet now you stand there and defend _him._" He glared at Freke and spoke of him with terrifying malevolence.

Urbain continued, "The world is coming to a crossroads. After we survive this…_if _we survive this, there will only be two types of human beings left: those with God, and those without God. Those with God will stand against the forces that almost led to this world's destruction, and will do everything that they can to fix it. Those without God will become part of the problem."

He turned around, his white cloak flowing around him as he began to step away.

"I will forgive you this treason," he said. "Because I still have faith that you shall make the right choice, when the time comes."

And then, Freke turned around a pillar, and went back to his makeshift shrine.

"What a pompous windbag," Freke said.

The Champion stared at him.

"What?" Freke said.

"How did that start?"

"He came over to my side of the Nexus and offered my apprentice 'forgiveness and redemption'. I insisted he leave. I managed to get him out here, but he wouldn't back down any further, and that was when the main argument started."

"I see…" the Champion murmured.

"I cannot stomach talking to him, or any of his followers…" Freke said, and looked at the Champion directly. "Have I told you about the current results of my research? Or even what I'm focusing it on?"

"What?" the Knight asked.

"I've been studying Miracles."

The Knight shot a glance at Freke to see if he was serious. He seemed to be.

"Yes, I've said I have distaste for them, but the power of Urbain's religion is undeniable…and my question was: why? He claims that the stronger his faith is, the stronger God's power is within him…which is a load of bollocks, especially given that despite his big talks, he's using Souls like the rest of us. You do know that the Miracles of God are one of the Soul Arts, right?"

"Yes," the Champion said. "And it always confused me."

"Exactly. So aside from being an immense hypocrite, he's also claiming things that make no logical sense. Since when is _Faith _a human strength that can be enhanced via Souls? No…no…Miracles are just like Magic, they're magic of a different kind, but they still are. The main difference is that Urbain is just slightly right…they come from an outside source."

"God."

Freke just stared. His eyes were dark.

"…Not God?"

"Son…I'm sorry, but there is no god. At least, not as we understand it."

"How can you say that, though?"

"How can you say that there _is?_" Freke asked. "Look around you. Demons are consuming humans left and right. Those of us left alive are doomed to suffer. If there is any sort of afterlife, we're preventing people from reaching it, because we are _consuming what is left of them after they die. _And furthermore, notice how those souls just sit around, waiting. We don't even _stop them _from going anywhere. They just _sit there _until we use them. There's nothing beyond this life, nothing…and I'm expected to believe that a just god, a god that loves us, created this? Feh."

"…But then where would Miracles come from?"

"Something real. Something that's just as powerful as their god…the most powerful _known_ being in existence."

He stared at Freke.

"You mean the Old One."

"Yes," Freke said. "I mean the Old One."

"…but as hypocritical and self-contradicting as you claim faith is, Freke, this is more so. All of the Faith-Users are slayers of Demons. The Old One would not use its power to fight itself."

"You assume that the Old One is a very simple being when you make that statement. You assume that it's just as simple as us," Freke said.

_I servest The Old One._

He visibly shook as the memory came back to him.

"What's wrong?" Freke asked.

"It's just…The Maiden…she told me that she serves The Old One. That my goal is to put it back to rest, so that it can be at peace."

Freke nodded, "yes…this is sounding more and more probable with every new piece of information. My working hypothesis would be that the Old One is a complex being, and that it has many facets…however, with that in mind…" He looked throughout the Nexus, to see if anyone was watching, and then he suddenly grabbed the Champion and led him in between two pillars.

"…Be careful of that Candle Maiden," Freke whispered.

"Why? She's done nothing but-"

"-Help you, yes. But let me ask you a new question: Has she gone out of her way to help you? Has she taken risks? Has she helped you to the _best of her ability?_"

_I mean that she could remove that wax from her eyes as easily as you could unsheathe your sword._

He turned his head to the side, and looked out on the center of the Nexus, the dozens of dancing symbols still shined and glowed, and he still could not understand them.

"I'm just asking you this:" Freke said. "If there is _one _thing that we can learn from Urbain, it's to be careful what you trust. Surely, you've done a lot of good, following the path that she has prescribed for you. You're making progress. But you must think larger: Are you really eliminating the threat here…or are, you through her, playing into the Old One's hand?"

The symbols were beautiful, he did not know what they meant, though, and he did not know what lay beneath them. His mind kept drifting toward that. Because every time he thought of the possibility of The Maiden betraying him, of her watching and encouraging his suffering, it was too painful.

"Do you understand?" Freke asked.

"Yes," he said. "I understand."

"Good," Freke said, and tapped him on the shoulder twice, then nodded, and turned around, walking toward his area of the Nexus.

The Champion looked up from the symbols, and saw her there, still lighting the Candles. He was glad, for once, that no one could see his face. He felt the muscles within it contort as he looked at her, he felt his eyes grow sore with oncoming tears.

The Maiden's head turned toward his, and for a moment, he could swear she was looking at him. But no, she was blind, her head kept turning past him, and she walked up the rest of the stairs, stopping to light more candles on her way.

Night was more of an agreed-upon time in the Nexus. Everyone got together, and decided that the Maiden would not light the candles, and that the gigantic room would be allowed to darken. This was when the bedrolls were brought out. This was when sleep came.

And tonight, Saint Urbain slept separately from everyone else.

He had hoped that as the world grew darker, people would at least look more toward the light, but no. Frustrating as it was, that was not the case. Souls were more in demand than ever, now that their arts were needed just to survive outside of this sanctuary. Even more than before, they'd become a form of currency to be spent in the thousands. It was sickening, and more than that, it was sad.

Especially when he saw good men turning from the Path of Righteousness.

"Hello, Saint Urbain," he heard above him.

He rolled over onto his side. Standing there, cloaked in darkness, was an unfamiliar figure. He could make out the two horns that rose from the top of its head.

"…Hello," Urbain said. "You were the man that was rescued recently, am I correct?"

"Why yes, yes I am…" the figure said. And his tone left Urbain slightly uneasy.

"I'm quite sorry, but I'm trying to sleep. If you're here for a service or a confession, I shall take it in the morning. I hope that it can wait at least that long."

"Sadly, it can't," the figure said.

Urbain groaned and sat up. But it was his duty as a man of God. And he could not complain about the state of the world without doing his part to fix it. He flexed his shoulders and looked at the dark figure, then began to stand.

"Oh that won't be necessary," said the figure.

"What?"

"I won't pull you out of bed. I just have a quick confession, honestly, and then I will allow you to rest, with no further disturbances."

"Alright then," said Urbain, secretly glad for it. "What might this confession be?"

"I," said the figure, as he drew a hook-like weapon from his side. "am a liar. The worst kind, you see. For I am about to break a promise made to a friend."

-

This became the Longest Chapter because I had to spent a good amount of time on Yuria. I don't know if you like or dislike the pairing, but it is what it is and it became what it was as I was writing. Yuria's behavior toward the player always struck me as incredibly intimate. So intimate that when you play a female character I get convinced that she's a lesbian. Her ability to see into people is also from the game, actually. If you spend time talking to her, you'll realize that she DOES warn the player about Yurt, and, much later **SPOILERS IF YOU HAVEN'T PLAYED DEMON'S SOULS BUT THEN WHY WOULD YOU BE HERE** Freke.

Yuria is also the best example of how you should not give me credit for the depth that these characters actually have. We're all familiar with her timid side, but did you know that when you attack her, she is the quickest to turn hostile? It's because she's spent her entire life fighting and running from people who want to hurt her. She's used to being attacked, and she's not going to interpret it as a mistake.

Anyway, enough about that, hope you enjoyed. Rate review as always.


	7. The Fallout

In death, Saint Urbain, Teacher of Miracles, Spreader of the True Faith, no longer seemed deserving of those or any other of his titles.

In death, he was simply dead.

His pure white robes were stained with blood. His holy symbol no longer shimmered or glowed. His eyes stared blankly up at the ceiling of the Nexus, and his mouth gaped open. It made his face look as if he were desperately trying to reveal the identity of his murderer, but could not.

The crowd stood around, and The Champion stood within them. Taller than the rest, his body easily craned over the small mass of people, and he saw all the details of the Priest's body vividly.

"Stand back-!" Said a blonde-headed woman, one of Urbain's most devoted followers, who stood before the crowd and stretched out her arms. "You mustn't look upon him like this! You mustn't!"

Her eyes watered. Her arms stretched so far that they looked likely to pull themselves right out of their sockets. She faced the overbearing, murmuring group with fear, but determination.

"I said _stand back!_" She repeated. "If you truly considered this man sacred, then by _god _do not badger his corpse!"

There was a hesitation, a few members of the crowd pulled away. Most others stepped slightly back, but did not abate.

The Champion stepped forward, then, and stood next to her. He looked upon the crowd, "Have you not respect for the dead? _Back off!_"

The followers of God looked at him, blankly, and then started to back away. They wandered off into their separate corners, hard as that was to do within the Nexus, and were left to wait for the body to be cleaned while trying not to gawk at it.

"Thank you…" the woman murmured, and looked up toward his face. "You always manage to keep people here under control."

_It's because they're afraid of me. _He thought, but didn't say. He was a man who killed powerful demons and freely walked between life and death. How else were they supposed to feel?

"I…I just can't believe that someone would do this…" she murmured, turning back to Urbain. "Oh…oh god, he's gone. He's really gone…he isn't coming back."

He didn't know what to say to that. She fell upon the body, sobbing.

"He was our _one hope!_ This world is so dreadful, and corrupt, and he was the _one light that god gave us…and now he's gone._" She spoke the last few words in a whimper so high that they could barely be heard.

He stood there, as she wept. Turning away to give her as much dignity as possible. When he did, he saw their eyes, looking from behind corners, around pillars, and he realized that what he had seen in them was not fear. No…those eyes were the same as those of Saint Urbain. They were dead. Anything resembling hope was gone.

The Blonde woman spoke again, interrupting his thoughts, "…could you…please help me clean him?"

He turned, and looked down at her, as she helplessly cradled Urbain's body.

"It's not dignified, to leave the remains of a Saint like this…it just isn't," she said. "But…I think everyone else is afraid to touch him."

"I understand," he said. And he bent down, placing his arms beneath Urbain's body. "We'll take him to the island of storms, and wash him in the ocean."

"Isn't that dangerous?" she asked, mystified.

"No…it was, but I've mostly cleared it out. And don't worry, I can protect you."

She nodded. Then grimaced as he started to pick up Urbain.

"Please…" she said. "Do not put him over your shoulder. Cradle him. Treat him...like a revered infant."

It was a strange phrase, but it made sense. He held Urbain and looked down into his blank eyes.

"Close his gaze," he asked her.

"Oh…certainly," she said, and did so.

They took Urbain away, and cleaned his robes, and his wounds. And by night they brought him back, looking only as if he were asleep. They had a funeral, then, and the followers of Faith wept openly. Across the Nexus, everyone heard. The Maiden, still lighting candles, Yuria, frowning, Freke, scoffing.

And above them all, Yurt, who simply crossed his arms, and watched.

-

"It's dreadful," Yuria said. "If there is a murderer in the Nexus you must find out who it is before you go out again."

"I have my suspicions," he said to her.

"Are they the same as mine?" she asked, softly, and nodded upward even softer. It was just clear enough.

"Yes," he said. "But I'm not sure how to handle it."

She blinked, "You _aren't sure _how to handle it? Do away with him. If he's going to kill us, he shouldn't be here. Lock him back up in that cage!"

"It's not that simple," he said. "He thinks that people who practice the Soul Arts should be treated the same as Demons. He wants to remove knowledge of them from existence."

"And then, as a user of the darkest of Soul Arts, what am I?" she said.

He looked up at her, and he felt his body quiver. It was true.

She kept going, "If you want me to be honest; I'm surprised that I wasn't his first target. You would think that he'd hate Witches more than anyone else."

"Some called Urbain a hypocrite…" he said quietly. "Maybe he was more offended by that."

"None of it changes the facts, though," she said. "How can you not stand against him in this? He killed your friend, he'll kill _me._"

"I do stand against it. It's wrong, but I don't know how to react. I don't know if he's too far to be saved, or if we can reason with him, and I don't want to kill him. Bloodshed leads to more bloodshed, and soon we're all killing eachother."

"Not if the bloodshed is preventative," she said.

He shook his head, "…I don't know."

"But how!?" she asked, impatiently. "How can you _not _know?"

"Because I don't know _anything!_" he said, and stood, pacing furiously. "In case you haven't noticed, I'm not a _person _anymore! I'm losing myself…I'm sorry, but I am. Do you think that's what a reasonable person would do? Kill him? Do you think it is?" He asked her with genuine desperation.

"You…you should know that…" she murmured.

"But I _don't!_" he said. "I'm fading away. As my soul is more and more exposed, without any body to hold it together, pieces of me keep floating away. My convictions, my emotions, my conscious _thought _is all fading, more than it was yesterday. I'm losing it, and I want to hold on to the things I have…I have a friendship with him, Yuria, do you understand that? It's a part of me. It's a thing that is still within my _soul._" He looked away from her now, he placed his hands on the wall and braced himself. "The things that I'm losing…those emotional ties…they're making me drift apart faster. If I keep letting myself lose them…I'll dissipate. I won't even be dead. There will be nothing left of me."

Then he felt her against him.

She whispered softly, "Listen."

He listened. There was silence.

"I don't hear anything."

"Listen harder."

He did. Around him he could hear the candles burning. He could hear a follower of Saint Urbain weeping. He heard Freke turn the page of a book.

"What do you hear?"

"…I don't know."

"People," she said. "People. They all depend on you. Even if they're afraid to say it. They're all grateful…I know I am. Now listen: as long as one single person who can remind you of yourself is here…any one of these people…you won't fade away."

"I hope that's true," he said. "But…I might forget them." _I forgot my own mother._

"Would you forget me?" she asked.

"…I hope to god that I don't," he said.

"You won't," she said to him. "I won't let you. If you start to forget me…if you even start, I will be there, do you understand? If you start to forget anyone here, I will come for you, and I will do everything I can until you are yourself again."

"I don't think that there's anything you _can _do," he said.

"Give me some credit; I'm a Witch. We figure these things out _all the time. _And the best part is that we don't even have to follow the rules," somehow, he could feel her smiling against him.

"Why…" he said. "Why are you doing all this, when I'm already broken?"

"I don't see you as broken…but if you are, perhaps I have a tendency to love broken things."

"Love…?"

"Love," she confirmed. "And listen to this, because even Witches know it to be true: if there is one thing that will mend even the most broken of souls, it is love."

_Love._

"But first, you have to stop Yurt. You can't have him staying around here murdering people. It won't be hard for you…you can't die."

"No, it shouldn't be…" he said.

"So go. Please, go."

He nodded.

"Alright," he said. "Not to worry you…but, if there's one person who can figure out how to kill me, it's Yurt…and if death is something I'm going to risk, there's someone I have to talk to, first."

She seemed worried at the very mention of his death. "I can come with you, if you like."

"No…I might be able to reason with him, but I have no doubt that he'll try to kill you. And you aren't bound to the Nexus like I am. I don't want to take that risk."

"Alright," she said. "But I'll be with you in spirit…who is it that you need to talk to?"

He moved away from the pillar, and faced the row of lit candles along the stairway. "Someone important."

-

"Hello," he said to the Maiden in Black.

She was so startled that she almost dropped the rod she was carrying. He immediately felt terrible.

"I'm…I'm sorry," he said.

She turned, and her face blankly watched him for a moment, as if she actually could watch. Then, she went back to lighting candles as if nothing had happened.

"Maiden," he said. "I mean…if that's a good way of referring to you. I honestly don't know if it is…it has been too long since we talked."

Still, she remained silent, just as she had that first day he had talked to her.

"I feel I may have done something wrong…I just wanted to see why you weren't speaking."

She murmured something.

"What?" he asked.

She just shook her head, and started walking up the stairs.

He pursued her, and angrily growled, "Now wait, if you have a problem, I want you to say it. We don't have time for silent grudges here, I would think you'd know that more than anyone."

She turned down toward him, and just said quietly, "Thou thinkst I hold a grudge against thee? Truly?"

He shrugged, "You…you act like it."

She turned her face toward the center of the Nexus, and shook her head. "No…nothing ist further from true. I findeth thee quite acceptable, in every circumstance. Anger ist an emotion wasted, rarely ist it not petty."

"Then why don't you talk to me?"

"For thou hast found a better lady; one more serviceable than I."

Beneath his helmet, his eyes widened. His entire body jolted.

"You're…you're jealous."

"If thou wisheth to call it envy, thou mayst."

"Yuria…okay; it's different. What I have with Yuria is not what I have with you," he said.

For the first time, the Maiden in Black seemed…confused. "She ist thy lady, ist she not?"

"Uh, in a way, yes."

"Thou wouldst fight for her, correct?"

"Yes."

"Then she ist thy lady, and thou dost need me no more."

"No," he said. "No, it's not like that. She's with me. I love her. I would fight for her, and I would die for her, but she is _not _my lady. Not in the way that you're thinking. Like…I would marry her," he said, and then regretted it as he said it.

"Thou wouldst take her to wife?"

"Yes, _yes _I would…I mean…" he looked around to make sure no one was listening. "Maybe…in the future."

"Why wouldst thou court her if thy answer ist only 'maybe'?"

"Because…" he tried to answer, and couldn't. "Well, fine, maybe that doesn't make sense. But it's still beside the point. I love her, but she isn't my lady. I'm not her Knight. Those are very different things."

"Differences, there are, or so thou sayst? I shalt inform thee when I spot the first."

"Fine! I don't care!" He said, throwing his arms up. "I wanted to talk to you more about something else. Something actually important."

She turned from him, "I hath told thee all that thou needst know."

"You haven't told me why you're blind."

And just like that, she went silent again. He regretted his approach at once. He'd been too direct.

Still, he had to keep trying. "Listen: I know that you're powerful. I know that you don't have to be blind…I just want to know why. Please, tell me that, because the way it looks right now-"

"Thou needst know nothing about me," she said. "My life is that of a Simple Candle Maiden, and I hath no story of interest to thee."

"I highly doubt that," he said. "You're a Demon."

"A Demon that ist nothing more than a Candle Maiden," she repeated.

"I'm just asking-" he started. But paying no heed to him, she walked away.

He just stood there, sighing. It probably wasn't worth trying again.

-

When he got to the top of the stairs, Yurt was gone, or at least wasn't immediately visible.

"Yurt…?" he said, as he walked into the area where they'd shared so many conversations.

"Yurt," he said again, glancing around. Somehow, it had gotten dark in here. He realized that the candles were out; Yurt had extinguished them himself.

"Yurt, I just want to talk. Are you in here? Are you willing to talk to m-"

And then something grabbed at him from the darkness, and in an instant, he was on the ground. He looked up, and he assumed that it was Yurt, but he couldn't see anything. He prepared for a blow to come, and put his shield up in front of him.

But instead of attacking him, Yurt pulled off his left boot.

"Yurt, what the hell are you…?"

Without saying anything, Yurt reached down to his ankle. There, wrapped around his flesh, was a sacred garment: The Nexial binding. It was that which bound him to the Nexus. The enchanted object that kept him coming back; the thing that he had told no one, not even Yuria, about.

Yurt placed his hand on the Binding, and his other arm easily swept past the Knight's shield and stuck a knife to his throat.

"Listen, and listen well, friend," Yurt said. "I do not want to kill you…but let it be said that I know _how._ And at this moment, I _could. _You have three options, in order of my preference: You will assist me in my mission, you will let me leave the Nexus peacefully, or you _will _die."

"Yurt…stop this…I'm the only hope for Boletaria, you know that," he managed to murmur.

"You?" Yurt scoffed. "I'm sorry, but once _you _succeed in your quest, this corrupt Earth will go back to exactly what it was, and the Old One will return, worse than before. No, _you _are delaying what you see as inevitable. The Soul Arts must disappear entirely. It is the only way."

"I understand Yurt, I understand…and we can figure out how to do that together. But we can't kill eachother!"

"You're naïve!" Yurt said. "Do you honestly believe that everyone here who knows the Soul Arts will just keep them secret? What if they're interrogated, tortured? All it takes is one person to spread information! But I'm done. I've given you my reasons. You help me or I leave, choose!"

He tried to see Yurt's eyes in the darkness, tried to see what expression his face showed…but it was too dark. And the knife began to press harder.

"I'm sorry, Yurt," he said. "You're an extremist. I can't join you."

He thought he saw the figure in the darkness frown, but he'd never be able to say for sure.

"Very well, then," Yurt said. "I will purify this land…and in order to do so, I'll need this."

And then he felt the binding on his ankle loosen.

"Yurt, what are you doing!?"

"I am taking the measures necessary to save this world," he said. "I assume that this garment is as simple as it seems? Your lady enchanted it…am I right?"

"It's…It's a piece of her dress…" he said, trying to speak despite the knife against his throat.

"How fitting," Yurt said.

He gave one last desperate kick as Yurt removed the binding, but it was to no avail. The knife slipped against his neck and cut him slightly.

"Careful," Yurt said. "You aren't immortal anymore."

And he felt it. He felt himself lose the connection to this place. He no longer felt the energy swirling around him and through him. Yurt held up the binding, embroidered with tiny golden symbols, and then bolted away.

He pulled himself up as fast as he could, putting his boot back on and standing.

"Yurt…!" he called. He considered yelling _give it back! _Like a child being picked on, but saw the folly in that. As he reached the stairs, he saw Yurt bolting down them, three at a time. He passed by the Maiden and shoved her aside, into one of the candles she was trying to light. The Champion took off after him, screaming his name, but one of them was wearing armor, and the other was unencumbered. Yurt bolted until he reached the monolithic archstones, and placed his hand on one of them: the portal to Stonefang.

And just like that, he was gone.

_No! NO!_

Yuria was right. She had been right. And now everything was in peril…including him. There was only one thing to do.

Without hesitating, he sprinted down the stairs and to the archstone, and pushed his hand into it. He didn't know which node Yurt had come out on. He'd just have to guess. He concentrated, focused his mind, and within a moment, he was gone.

And until he got that binding back, there were no do-overs.

-

Alright, I wrote this despite being sick, and I have a few promises to make:

1: The next few chapters are going to get progressively more intense.

2: There will be more of the Maiden in Black.

3: There will ALSO be more of Sage Freke. He's important to this plot, actually, very much so...but I couldn't find a place to fit him in here. All will be revealed in time.

4: Up until now I've stuck very closely to the game. I wouldn't say to expect some divergences, but I will admit I'm going to be playing a little looser with it for my purposes. Just a heads up on that.

Hope you enjoyed. Is Yurt an asshole? (well, yeah...) But despite that, is he in the right, here? What the hell is up with the Maiden in Black? Should Yuria have insisted on helping out? Is "I am completely losing my identity" a valid excuse for being a flake? Did I write it too mushy? Maybe. My brain's mushy right now. I'm going to go sleep.


	8. Fire

Stonefang mine was as it had been before he left: dry, stuffy, and blisteringly hot. The scent of melted ore clung to the walls. And as the universe grew denser, and he came back to it, these were the things he felt first.

And second to come was his sight. As his body lurched up from nothing, he saw the movement, the running. The figure scampering off down a shaft, deeper into the mine.

"Yurt!" He yelled, knowing that it was to no avail. The figure was off, and he had no choice but to pursue.

They ran down the dirt tunnels, stumbling over uneven surfaces. They bolted past several demonic miners, corrupted entities forced to work for no reason other than working. The Lizard-men looked up, and readied their pickaxes, but before they could attack, the two runners were out of sight.

A fat minister stood next to an elevator shaft. It laughed at the presence of its new prey, and let loose a fireball. Yurt, coming first, dodged out of the way and then charged the Minister, cutting open its grotesque belly with his hook.

The Champion came swiftly behind him, and raised his sword.

"There's nowhere to go. Turn around Yurt, look at me."

Yurt's face turned, and the Champion saw it for the first time. He was a young man, as young as him, with sharp blue eyes like dagger, and dark hair. But that was only half of his face. The other was a burned, mangled wreck. It stunned him, and managed to make him hesitate for a moment.

That hesitation was enough. Yurt, holding the still cackling Minister in his grasp, rushed toward the massive shaft and jumped down into it.

"You've got to be kidding me…" The Nameless said aloud, then the realization struck him: _He can't die. I can. He knows this._

He ran to the wheel and began to turn it, as quickly as he could. Each turn of the crank came agonizingly slow, and he wished that he could just jump down like Yurt. When he saw the elevator, a simple wooden platform, come up, he ran to it before it had even fully raised, and began to lower it again.

By the time he had reached the bottom, it had been over two minutes. _Two minutes._

And at the bottom of the shaft, lying there, was the crushed body of the Minister, somehow even more disgusting than it had been before. Yurt was nowhere in sight.

He cursed, and took off down the tunnel exit from this place.

But what awaited him was a maze.

Tunnels and their offshoots webbed throughout this area. They had no distinguishing features, and each looked just like the next. The tunnels went up and down as well, forming a labyrinth in three dimensions.

There was no point in running, anymore, so he slowed. It was better to pace himself. If he found Yurt, he'd take up chase, but for now he was just as likely to find some hint of him walking. And it made it easier to scan the tunnels for any such clue.

He took turn after turn, not knowing if it was the right one, and occasionally making an arbitrary decision simply because it popped into his head. _Right is always correct, so let's go right this time._

A childish part of him considered calling Yurt's name again, but why? What good would it do? Why would he ever answer?

It was then that he first heard the rolling.

_Oh no._

It was behind him. The end-result of an unholy union between a beetle and an armadillo. And he could feel the Earth above and below him quivering with the force of its approach. If it crushed him when he was like this, he was truly done for.

He ran.

Behind him, he heard it gaining on him. It was moving down the shaft at least twice as quickly as he could run. Maybe three times. It grew louder, and the entire tunnel started to shake so much that he stumbled, and almost fell. He could imagine the result, if he fell. He'd never have time to get back up before it was all over, and the juices inside his body were squished out through the joints in his armor.

Somehow, with that thought, he found it in him to run slightly faster.

The heat came, heat on his armor, and heat on his back. These things had magma and fire under their skin. It was the only explanation. It was so close that it was going to plow him over and flatten him, he was done for, there was no hope.

And then he saw the intersection.

As quickly as he could, he dodged to the side, almost fast enough. The rolling beetle clipped his back, and he was slammed against, and partially through, the tunnel's wall. It dragged him along for a few more meters. His body was being grinded between the edge of the living boulder and the wall.

But eventually, it moved past him, and kept going. He slumped.

It took him a few seconds to realize that he was alive.

It took another few seconds to realize that none of his bones were broken. Though his armor had been in better condition.

_Thank god. _He thought, and squirmed inwardly as he remembered Sage Freke, and remembered what he might actually be thanking.

But there was no time for that now. He needed to find Yurt.

He went back to the previous intersection, the one that he had tried, and failed, to duck into, and began to walk down it. The tunnels remained quiet, very quiet, and he realized, now that the rumbling was gone, that if he stayed perfectly still. He might hear the heavy trudging of another echoing through these caves.

So he stood, and listened. After a few moments, he placed his ear against the wall.

And then he heard it.

A faint rumbling.

_No…_he thought, _That's not fair. I avoided it. I avoided it._

But it was there, and it was getting louder.

He breathed deeply. He had to do something, anything, to get out of this. He couldn't run again, he hadn't been fast enough before, and on top of everything he was now fatigued. He thought of all the things he had on him. Was there anything he could put up as a massive shield? A barrier that could hold this thing back from killing him?

As he searched himself, he found it on his back: a rusty spade. He'd taken it off of one of the Demons when he first came here and kept it because it might come in handy someday. The memory of a spade being useful at one point was vague, but it was there.

And then, as the rumbling increased. A piece of dirt bounced off his helmet.

He looked up. Chunks of dirt and dust were falling all around. These caves weren't stable. The dirt was soft.

He pulled out the Spade and started digging.

It was a tremendously stupid course of action, he realized as the first mound of dirt only pulled out enough for his toes to go under the surface. But it was all that he had. He relaxed his mind, and he welcomed the speed and strength of the Demons Souls inside of him. The spade, at first moving at a quick, but very human speed, now became a whirlwind. The dirt was tossed aside faster than gravity could work, and soon it wasn't even resting on the spade, he dug deeper, and finally the hole could fit his body. He jumped into it and kept digging.

The rumble grew loud, and he felt the heat. His upper body was still above the hole. He looked up, and he saw it there. Rolling toward him, a half second away from crushing him. Desperately, he ducked.

He felt its back touch him, very slightly, as it rolled along him, putting his back on equal level with the floor. But there were no crushed bones, and he was alive.

He looked up, now. Ahead of him the ball was slowing down, and coming to a stop.

_Damn it._

He kept digging faster. Thank god these monsters moved ponderously slow when they weren't rolling. Still, its plodding steps antagonized him, and made him more fearful than he would have been if it had rushed him.

The pile of dirt on the side of the hole began to blot out the tunnel itself, so he dug on the other side. Making a soft wall between the magma creature and himself. It kept up at the same pace, not reconsidering its desire to kill for a moment. It is human nature to consider slow creatures less vicious, but this monster alone stood to prove human nature wrong.

Finally, his head was under when he was standing. He kept digging, deeper. There was no longer any logic behind the digging, he was just doing it. Dirt flew up out of the hole, tossed six feet or more straight up, through the shaft. But still the monster came.

And then above him he saw its orange, fiery eye, looking down on him. He kept digging, paying it no heed. A splash of dirt hit it, and it made a strange screeching sound. Then, he felt something warm shooting down toward him, and it felt like fire touched his back, he screamed.

Above him was its tongue, glowing a bright orange with pure heat. He swerved away from it, and placed his already burned back against the side of the pit. Facing it head on. An insane, vicious idea that only a trapped man can think of came to him, and he swung his spade at full force. The edge of the blade turned orange as it hit the bright tongue, but it swung true, and severed the appendage from its owner.

Above, the thing screamed again. Boiling hot saliva rained down on him, and the tongue squirmed at the bottom of the hole. With the heated shovel, he began digging faster.

Then the ground suddenly felt very loose.

He realized in that instant that he had been hoping to dig down into another tunnel this entire time. But given the circumstances he hadn't considered what that would entail.

He was about to fall, and he had no idea how far.

Dirt and rocks gave way under and around him, and he grabbed at the powdery walls. His fingers slipped through them and in an avalanche of dust he spun, and prepared himself for a violent landing.

His armor took some of the fall, the desperate, pathetic roll that he managed to pull off took more of it. It still hurt. He groaned, and looked up.

Yurt was standing right in front of him.

The two of them stared at each other for several seconds.

Yurt turned and ran.

"Get…back…here…" he murmured groggily, and pulled himself through a mound of dirt to stand up. He felt his armor dangling around him. After all the punishment he had put it through, it was in shambles, and he let the shambles fall to the ground. His arm guard and gauntlet gave way. The plate on his back, which was burning hot, thankfully fell off of him, its severed straps no longer keeping it in place. He was moving faster, but still not as fast as Yurt.

Then, there was a light ahead of them. The color of fire, like all the lights here, but a light nonetheless. He looked up, and saw it: the tunnel ended in a river of lava, one that other monsters were bathing in. They didn't seem to notice them yet, and as Yurt saw this too, he ground to a halt.

"Yurt…!" He called out. "Give me back that binding, _now._"

Yurt looked up, his scorched face just as horrid as it had been before, and then ran to the side, down a passage he hadn't seen. When he reached the end of the tunnel he ran too, tailing Yurt more closely than he ever had been before.

The tunnel they were now in was open on its left, facing out to the baths of lava that the bizarre rock creatures softened themselves in. He didn't have time to consider why they did this. All that mattered was getting Yurt.

Ahead of him, Yurt took another right, and he followed. The footing became even more unstable, but he could tell that they were back in human tunnels, dug by either men, or the demons that they had transformed into.

Yurt turned another corner, and kept gaining distance, but the whole time, he managed to stay on him.

"Yurt, I'm going to catch you eventually, just give up!" He yelled after him, as he ran.

There was no response.

And then Yurt turned another corner, very sharply, and then stopped. In his haste, the Champion didn't consider why. And for the rest of his life he would regret that he didn't. He would forever regret that he hadn't backed away, and had instead lusted after catching Yurt so much, that he had forgotten simple caution.

He saw it when he turned, too.

A faint yellow light, directly in front of them, gently pulsing.

In a flash it came back to him:

_"…They even used the Soul Arts for mining," Yuria said._

_ "Well, of course. You beef people up. Make them stronger."_

_ She shook her head, and smiled gently, "no, not like that…well, actually, nevermind, they did. You're right. They looked a lot like you, those miners."_

_ "Like what?"_

_ "Strong. Very much so, and iron-willed."_

_ He looked out into the center of the Nexus, as if she'd be able to see his expression through his armor._

_ "I'm not iron-willed," he said._

_ "You are. A normal person would have given up by now…they would have a hundred times over, but you keep fighting. Just because you don't remember who you are, or what you should think, does not make you weak."_

_ There was a pause._

_ "Back to the miners, though," he said._

_ "Oh, well yes," she murmured. "They built gigantic pulses of light and force. Concentrated explosions focused on a specific are;, that could demolish entire sections of the mountain at a time, if they were strong enough."_

_ "That's…really something."_

_ She nodded. "I'm not sure if they're all deactivated…if you ever go back to Stonefang, watch out for them."_

_ "No need to worry." _ He'd said to her, with absolute confidence. _"I'll be fine."_

And at the time, for whatever reason, the thing that seemed most natural to yell was, "_Yurt! Watch out!"_

And then a thunder took the tunnel. A great rending cacophony of sound and violence. There was no sight. Sight was blown away with everything else. There was no sound because their ears were blasted to oblivion. The force acting upon them prevented them from feeling anything, along with the gaggle of rocks that came down on their heads.

And the world became a void.

-

When he came to, he could hear Yurt groaning.

He tried to move. He wouldn't. He felt solidified, cocooned in the Earth. There was no way to escape. Worst of all, he was face down. It made it hard to look up, hard to breathe.

But he did manage to look up. And when he did he saw Yurt, laying there. His scarred face dazed. His hair encrusted with dirt. When he came to, he shook it out, and pieces of earth flew across the dark room, barely lit by the Champion's mostly concealed augite, and by something else, off to the side.

For a while, they were both silent.

"Well, we're trapped then," said Yurt. "I guess that this is horribly ironic…in more ways than one."

"…What is?" the Champion asked, when he'd come to enough to talk. He still felt unusually light-headed, and he couldn't figure out why.

"I stole your binding assuming that it would make me invincible," Yurt said. "I wasn't prepared for the possibility of being stuck somewhere."

"Why…" The Champion murmured. "Why did you steal it…we could have helped each other."

"I just explained my reasons, and I already explained to you why I have them. You know why."

"I know, but…it's wrong."

"It's wrong to consume everything that's left of a human being for personal gain. It didn't stop an entire kingdom from prospering off of it."

There was silence between them, then.

"Yurt," he asked, and he realized why his head was foggy. Blood was leaking from underneath his helmet. "…Were you going to kill Yuria?"

"Yes."

"Why? Please…just don't kill her."

"She's a witch."

"I know…but...she's not a bad person. And out of everyone I know here, which is everyone I know, now, with no exceptions…she's the only one who actually knows me, who sees a person inside of me. The Nexial binding…you pay your price for it, Yurt. You lose yourself."

"Duly noted."

"But I'm coming back. With her help…I can feel myself coming back. Please, if you have any soul at all, don't do that to me."

"We all have souls. Some are darker than others."

"Promise me."

"I already made you a promise."

"But…you broke it."

"Exactly."

Another pause. This one could have been hours. He couldn't tell. He felt as if he were dreaming. The orange light that was on the outside of his vision came closer, and he realized that it was lava, slowly leaking out of a hole in the wall, and flowing toward them.

"Yurt," he asked, again.

"What now?"

"Why are you burned like that?"

Yurt was silent, and he didn't think he'd answer the question for a long time. But then the fingers on his one free hand came up, and he stroked the burn.

"It's nothing," he said. "A mage did it, when I was younger."

"Why…?"

"Because he wanted to kill me."

"Oh…when you were a kid? Why would he want to kill a-"

"He wanted my soul."

He wanted to say something after that, to ask more. But Yurt's tone made it clear that asking further was not recommended.

"I wanted to apologize to you," Yurt said, in what felt like eons later.

"What…?"

"You're a good person caught in a bad situation, and I never wanted to harm you. But I have, and as it's looking, I'll continue to."

"Please, Yurt…please don't kill her…"

But Yurt didn't answer that, "the truth is: my mission is to kill _all _practitioners of the soul arts. And from the beginning, this meant you, too. If I could, I would give you a merciful death right now…rather than having you slowly burn in here…but I can't. Both my legs are broken, and I don't think I'd be able to stand even if they weren't."

"Then don't. Let's stop this, Yurt, let's find a way out, together, we'll do it…come on, please."

"Either you're right about losing your identity, or that blow you took to your head is doing a number on you…probably both. Our paths are set, my friend. And for the past few hours, I've been waiting for my opportunity to follow mine."

"…What…?"

"Why do you think I really came down here?" Yurt asked. "Do you think it was to escape? Why would I ever escape to a place as horrid as this? No; I did it to draw you out. I've seen you fight. I watched you on the Tower…you were the one person who could have defeated me. And now, you're out of the way...and I'm headed back."

"Back? What are you talking about? What are you going to do?"

"I hate fire…" Yurt said. "I hate it more than anything. It could almost be said I have a phobia…"

"What are you talking about?"

"…I have to do this…" Yurt whispered. And it sounded like he was whispering to himself. "…I have to. I have to do this…"

His mind came back to him around that point, and he spoke more rationally than before. "Whatever you're going to do, it's probably not a good idea. Now come on, I have moongrass in my pack. I can't grab it, but if you can reach it-"

"I'm not afraid…" Yurt murmured. "…I'm not afraid…"

And then, he rolled out from under the rock that the right side of his body was pinned under, and the Champion realized that he had never been pinned very well. With two broken legs repeatedly hitting the ground, it was easy to see his teeth gritting in pain. He kept rolling, though…and his body moved straight into the lava.

And he screamed, and the disgusting smell of burning flesh filled the small, closed off chamber. The scream became more frantic, more high pitched, and then became the scream of a man who knew he was about to die. His entire body went up in flames, and turned red and fell apart like tender meat.

And then it all started to dissolve.

_No…_

The pieces of him dissolved into a teal mist, which floated up out of the lava, and then away.

_No…_

The essence of Yurt's Soul came out of the lava, and passed through the walls of stone as if they were nothing, and then continued on its way back to the Nexus.

He cried out, in vain, in a voice that no one could hear, "_Yurt!_ _Please don't kill her! Please! I need her! I NEED HER!_"

And all the while, the lava crept closer.

-

Yes, I know. Chapter 7 then Chapter 8 in rapid succession, after a decent period of inactivity. What can I say? Writers are artists, and artists create when inspiration strikes. I've had my fair share of inspiration lately, and I finally realized how I'm going to end this entire plot. (way, way in the future, actually; this is going to be going on for a while)

Anyway, I think I'll put off continuing this for a little bit. I have other projects to work on and such. At least it's not a horrible cliffhanger ending. I would absolutely hate myself and feel like a horrible person if I left people off on a horrible cliffhanger ending for a long period of time.

Of course, you _may _for whatever reason, feel that this _is _a horrible cliffhanger ending. Though I can't imagine why. Feel free to let me know if it is, I'm always open to the possibility that I'm wrong. And if I am wrong, I suppose I might continue it sooner.


	9. Dark Souls

The molten rock flowed down slowly, but steadily. And he was left to lay there, waiting for it to consume him. There was nothing he could do but think.

Everyone was going to die. Yurt was going to kill all of them. He wouldn't spare a single soul.

Time passed. And he thought of Yuria.

He was hers in every sense of the word, and she was his. There was no denying or escaping it, it was just the way it was. And if he allowed that to happen…he wouldn't. He couldn't. He had to do something.

And then he remembered.

In his pack there was a fragment of a broken archstone. Energy radiated from it, and he had held onto it more because he could than for any actual reason. Maybe it would be useful; after all, it was magical.

Now, it was his only hope.

His head craned, and he saw his bag, lying under another mound of rocks, across from him. He reached, and his hand wouldn't make it. It wasn't even close.

He groaned.

He tried again, still not there.

_Come on, _he thought. He clawed at the dirt, and realized that with his enhanced strength, slowly, he was pulling himself forward.

Very slowly.

But slow was better than nothing. And he kept straining, desperately, held down by the weight of the rocks.

He rose from the center of the Nexus, at first looking just like the bound champion before him. And for a moment, everyone seemed to think he was.

Only the blind Maiden frowned, and knew what was about to happen. She dropped her staff, and her mouth opened. Words almost escaped her, but she remained silent.

The soul of Yurt briskly walked toward the religious side of the Nexus. He drew his blade and swung it with him in each of his powerful steps.

There was no stealthy way to do this. He had to move fast.

The blonde woman approached him first, he had never bothered learning her name. He had seen her using a miracle once.

"Excuse me…" she murmured. "Could you-?"

She didn't finish. He brought up his blade and slashed through her neck in the same way he had killed Urbain. The recognition dawned on her, but it was too late, and she slumped forward, gurgling.

Then, there was a panic.

People ran, they clawed at the sides of the Nexus trying to escape, but it was a small area, and Yurt was fast and efficient. He grabbed a running man by the back of his shirt and slit his throat. Another he stabbed in the abdomen, bending his body over his dagger and then throwing him off.

Urbain's former apprentice stood and tried to pull out a mace. He didn't even manage to swing it. Yurt decapitated him, and his headless body floundered.

One after another, blood stained his weapon and his armor, every person who could potentially know anything about the soul arts. Boldwin, the Blacksmith put up the most fight, but he was an old man, and a small, scrawny old man at that. He went down easily enough. Stockpile Thomas hid, cowering. To be expected, but Yurt had no interest in him, the man was clearly a commoner, and incapable of using the Forbidden Arts.

In less than five minutes, the entire left side of the Nexus had become nothing more than a series of bodies. Yurt didn't stop to examine his handiwork. He just flicked some of the blood off his blade and moved on.

And found himself face to face with the Maiden in Black.

She stood there, staring without eyes. This was the one thing he had been afraid of, the one risk that he would have to take. He held back.

"Why doth thou hesitate?" she asked, calmly.

Her hands came up, and stroked her long hair, then moved it aside. She bent her thin, pale neck, baring her jugular to him.

"Takest what thou came for," she murmured.

He pulled his weapon up to her throat cautiously, as if it might be a trick, and then cut across her vein. Blood sprayed out along a trail his blade left, and she smiled softly at him as she fell forward. A pool quickly formed beneath her.

And Yurt kicked the Maiden in Black's body. It rolled down the entranceway stairs, leaving a trail of red behind it.

The mages heard the screams, but by the time they realized what was going on, Yurt had already killed the Maiden. Yuria watched on, wide-eyed, speechless. She wanted to do something, she wanted to stop him, but she was struck dumb by a single question, running through her: _Where is he? What happened to him?_

Freke's apprentice acted with more agency. "Hide," he said to his master. "I'll kill him."

Freke looked at the young man, and blinked. "No…you're insane. Did you see what he just did? Boy, you don't stand a chance."

"I didn't stand a chance coming here," the apprentice answered. "But I came for you. Hide. Your knowledge is invaluable, and I won't let it be erased without exhausting every option."

"If I'm hiding," Freke said. "Then you're-"

"_He's coming over here._ _Go._" The Apprentice said. And when Freke didn't move, he shoved him. "_Go! Go now!"_

And Yuria saw it. Freke, in his younger days, may have been willing to stand with his apprentice, to fight next to him, but he was an old man and his willpower wasn't what it once was. He backed away, and cast a spell and his body blended with the stone of the Nexus.

The apprentice turned to Yuria.

"I never expected to see you as an ally...but that's how it's become."

"I guess so," Yuria said, grinding her teeth as she looked at the form of Yurt striding across the Nexus, toward them, blood dripping from him.

_He killed him. That's what happened. He _killed _him._

"I have no illusions." The Apprentice said. "I'll distract him. Use your most powerful magic. I don't care if you kill me in the process, kill _him._"

Yuria just nodded.

He frowned, probably uncertain of her, but he nodded too, and they came out from the pillar they were hiding behind.

At once, the apprentice fired a soul arrow. Yurt swerved out of the way of it and charged the young man. _So fast. _Yuria thought. Before she could even react, Yurt's dagger had struck. The Apprentice coughed up blood, and along with it, the word, "_now."_

And inside her, something snapped.

"_You have no idea how lucky I am that I found you," he said._

_She laughed._

"_Why is that funny?"_

"_Because you think that _I'm _something you were lucky to find," she said._

_He turned to her then, and removed his helmet. Again, she saw his handsome face, his blue eyes and his golden hair. She didn't think he understood how attractive he was. That self-awareness had probably been lost with everything else._

_And he looked at her, his gaze intent on her._

"_Yuria, you love me. Even though I don't have a name. Even though I'm barely a _person. _When I first felt something for you, I didn't expect you to return it. I didn't expect you to ever show an interest in me."_

"_I didn't expect you not to want to _kill _me,"_ _she said. And murmured, "…I'd kill me."_

_She regretted the words as soon as they left her, "I mean, I wouldn't…I…"_

_But when she looked up at him, he was staring at her in a way he never had before. The awareness had dawned on him. it was true, he had no identity. But her identity was something black. Something sinful and irreparably flawed. She would never escape her shame for it, and if she could erase it like he'd erased his, she'd gladly do so._

"_Listen," he said. "You don't have to worry about that anymore. No one is going to kill you. If Urbain even tries it, I'll take your side in an instant. I'll kill him if I have to."_

"_You wouldn't," she said._

"_No, I would. I'd kill anyone for you. I'd spare a demon if you asked me to. I'd give up my entire purpose. Everything, just so you wouldn't die. I will _not _let you die, I promise."_

"_That's not a promise that you can make in this world, not as it is."_

"_I just made it."_

_She smiled, despite herself._

"_Fine," she said, meeting his gaze. "But I promise you the same then: you won't die."_

"_That's not fair, I can't die," he said, almost teasingly._

"_Exactly how I intend to keep it," she said, her coy eyes batting at him._

_He grabbed her, and she felt his lips, then. Warm, and every bit made of flesh. The times when he was ethereal hurt her deeply. He felt like an image of himself, then. Not something that she could cling to._

_Not something that she felt safe with._

He killed him.

_He killed him._

And then the façade she had been performing shifted and vanished. The walls she held up crumbled, and from within them emerged a beast indiscernible from a demon.

"_You killed_ _him!" _she roared, in a shriek that didn't sound human. She stretched her arms out, the temperature shot up so fast that the stone surrounding her cracked and softened, and in an instant the air itself began to ignite. Columns of fire burst around her.

Yurt abandoned his dagger in the apprentice and dodged backward so quickly that he didn't have time for elegance. He slammed into the ground and rolled awkwardly. Despite that, he wasn't fast enough. The fire scorched his being and the wispy sound of his soul being damaged rang out. The apprentice, left behind in the flames, was incinerated. His remnants fell to the ground as a charred skeleton.

Some of the fire cleared, but it still burned along the ground and on the pillars. Yuria stood there, her eyes filled with black rage. The stone surrounding her glowed a faint orange, and she stepped over it, ignoring the burned soles of her feet, walking toward Yurt.

Her entire body recoiled with her right hand, and Yurt got up just in time to save himself. When she came forward, a massive blast of darkness and fire flew toward him. He dodged again, and the ray hit a pillar, shredding it as if the stone were parchment. It kept going, and left a massive crater in the wall of the Nexus.

"_Yurt!"_ Yuria screeched, and he covered his ears. There was something else behind the voice, something speaking through her. _"You will die…no, no you will not die! You will suffer! I shall hold your soul in agony for all eternity for what you have done!_ _I shall find every person you have ever loved, everyone who has ever loved you, and murder them before your eyes!"_

Yurt threw a knife at her, and she glared at it as it flew. When it passed within a few feet of her, the heat incinerated it.

"_Really? Yurt, really!?" _she screeched. _"A tiny blade! That's all you have at your disposal!? You think you can kill with that!? No…let me _show _you how to kill!_"

Again her body reared back, then visibly enlarged. And when she came forward this time, it exploded out of her mouth, as if she were vomiting, a swirling trail of dark, fiery power. Yurt tried to dodge it, but this was not a straight shot. It turned, and it followed him. He ran, he jumped, he ducked and weaved, but it wasn't enough, and the energy kept gaining.

And Freke watched over the side of the stairwell. Awed and fearful.

_Is this it…? _He thought to himself. _Is this really the power of an unrestrained demon's soul? _

And while Yurt was an excellent fighter, with excellent reflexes, the dark serpent catching him was only an eventuality. When it did, it wrapped itself around him, the scorching heat burning him even as it crushed him. He cried out, but his cries were swallowed as the energy covered him. The fire burned away at his semi-tangible form.

"_I want you to feel it. Yurt," _she said. _"I want you to feel what it is to be hated. Do you feel my hatred? DO YOU FEEL IT!?"_

From inside the swirling mass of destruction, there was no response. Yurt's soul lost its solid form, breaking down, and becoming entirely ethereal. The invisible wisps of Ectoplasm flew toward the center of the Nexus, and there began to reform.

But Yuria couldn't hear that, not over the sound of her own screaming, _"I said, do you feel it!? Or are you dead already!?"_

And then she felt the dagger thrust into her back.

"Yes, and yes," a voice behind her whispered. "Your hatred for me is rather obvious…but it's also blinding."

_No…_

"Now I wonder what would happen…" Yurt murmured. "…If I did…_this."_

And he twisted the blade inside of her, dislodging her spine. She lost the feeling in her lower body, and crumbled.

And on the way down, she roared, she shot more blasts of dark fire, but he avoided them easily. She was stationary. It could only be coming from one place. Finally, he swung his hook, and caught one of her wrists, cleanly severing it.

She screamed in pain, and as she did he cut off her other hand. Then he grabbed her by the neck and pounded the back of her head against the floor of the Nexus.

"Now that you're thoroughly crippled," he said. "Where is Freke?"

She roared, and the surrounding temperature increased. There was another hiss of his soul being damaged.

"That's nice," he said. "But I can't die anymore. Tell me where the Sage is."

"You…you stole it…you stole it from him and you killed him!" she yelled.

"How astute. Freke. Now."

As the blood drained from her wrists, she went pale. Her body began to jerk repeatedly, and she made sharp hissing sounds. It was unclear whether she was laughing or crying, "I'm not going to live long enough for you to interrogate me…may your soul be swallowed by the Old One and fade into nothing."

"Then so be it," Yurt said, and prepared to finish her.

At least a half hour passed, probably longer. But he was making progress. In fact, given the circumstances, he was making a stupendous amount of progress…it was almost there.

His outstretching hand reached the bag, and went inside of it. Moongrass, moongrass, always more moongrass. Actually that could be useful right now. He grabbed a wad of it and stuffed it into his mouth, and he felt some of his pain soothe over, but his hand shot back immediately, even as he chewed. A bunch of useless rocks fell out of the bag (It was the blacksmith's fault. He encouraged him to pick those up.) but he still kept reaching out…and finally his fingers wrapped around something small, but surging with a buzzing energy, as if it were full of static electricity.

He bowed his head to it, as he would an entire Archstone, and whispered:

"The Nexus…take me to the Nexus…please."

And the stone exploded. Tiny fragments shredded the inside of his bag, but energy ran through his finger, and then across his body, and he looked over one more time, to see that the lava had almost reached him. He broke apart into energy, and floated away.

-

His body rose from the circle, gaining material form, and before it was even fully there he saw them. Yurt stood over Yuria, blood dripping from his hooked blade, preparing to swing down.

He yelled out, "_stop!" _the moment that he could speak.

Yurt turned, "How in the hell did you get back here!?"

Energy shifted, and formed his legs, his arms, his shield and his sword. Once he was no longer suspended, however, he stumbled. Some of his bones may have been broken…the moongrass hadn't fixed that, but he put his weight on the blade of his sword, and carefully helped himself to stand.

"That doesn't matter…get off of her, Yurt. Point that weapon at me," he growled. "To hell with whatever friendship we had. I'm going to kill you."

-

Attention Maiden in Black fans: If you have any Demon's Souls knowledge you should _not _be discouraged by what just happened.

Attention fans of any other character in this story: Sorry.

Reviews plz.


	10. Responsibility

"To hell with whatever friendship we had. I'm going to kill you."

Yurt's unburnt eye lingered on the crippled knight. And then he just shook his head.

"And how do you intend to do that?"

"I…" he expected to have something else to say, something clever. But nothing came.

"Of course," Yurt said, after waiting a moment. "I'll be polite and stand here. Walk to me."

The Champion pulled his sword out of the ground, and took a step. His footing became more firm, and he took another. The steps were clumsy at first, but they became more natural. The whole time though, his eyes were not on his feet. They were focused on Yurt, standing over Yuria. As he got closer, he could smell the blood. Rage stung at him like a swarm of gnats and flowed through his body.

And he charged.

Yurt easily stepped out of the way of his sword and countered. The hook pried off more of his armor, and stabbed into his shoulder through the now missing plates. He roared and his left arm, his shield arm, went limp. A swirl of motion, violent clashes, he thrust his body toward Yurt and tackled him, catching him off guard. They went down together, and he bashed his helmeted forehead into Yurt's unprotected face. Again, and again, and again. Soon, the burns weren't the only marks. But it wasn't enough, he felt his skull passing through Yurt's ethereal frame, and remembered that he was fighting a ghost, and the ghost wouldn't die. Yurt grabbed his head and pulled it away, and in response he swung with his sword. It caught his enemy on the neck. There was no blood, but a wisp of ectoplasm.

And Yurt dissipated again.

_No….no!_

Out of the mist, again, he formed, his body rising out of the center of the Nexus.

The Champion turned, and looked at him.

"You won that because I wasn't trying," Yurt said. "I'm sorry. I'll be serious, this time."

Again, he rushed Yurt. Again there was a flurry of violence. He was injured, but desperation pulled him ahead, he beat him.

And Yurt reformed.

It went on.

-

The Maiden in Black lay on the dark floor, her blood soaking into the stone around her. Her waxen eyes could not open. Her face could show no expression.

So without any change in demeanor, her arms moved forward, and pushed her from the ground as naturally as if she'd woken up from sleeping. She ran her hand over the cut in her neck, and suddenly there was no longer a cut there at all. The blood on the ground was gone.

She heard the violence in the center of the Nexus, the clanging of swords and armor, and, first picking up her staff, she walked toward it.

There were things that the Maiden could sense, but not see. She knew the smell of her own handiwork, the feeling of its presence. And in between the wispy sound of a soul being damaged and the incoherent cries of pain from Her Champion, she sensed the presence of the Nexial Binding.

She sat down for a moment, and listened to the fight. It was obviously heated. Rage and passions were flaring. Ideologies were settling themselves the same way that differing ideologies always did: violence.

She had to carefully consider her actions here. Right now everything in her was prompting her to do something strictly prohibited.

The Nexus smelled like death.

The stone was cold beneath her feet.

She heard Her Champion cry again. A part of her cried with him, but it hid itself behind her covered eyes.

It was such a simple action; it might as well have been a flick of the wrist. Was that really so bad?

She nodded with herself, consenting with her own arguments. And it _was_ a flick of the wrist, actually, quite literally. She waved her hand.

-

Yurt staggered, briefly and then barely moved out of the way of a sword swing. He glanced around, and once toward his ankle, as the energy of the Nexial binding left it.

Yurt backed off, toward the other end of the Nexus. When the champion tried to pursue him, he held his guard up and prepared to defend.

She didn't see these things. She could sense them.

"What's the matter, Yurt?" the Champion said. "Afraid of dying, again?"

Yurt's burnt face went white. And then he attacked.

Another flurry, this one more violent and desperate than all the others combined. The Champion ducked and dodged, but it wasn't enough, some of the blows scratched his armor, or even penetrated it…and his injured left arm couldn't even hold up his shield.

When they parted again, he dropped it. With his left arm weak, it was nothing more than a dead weight. He held his sword out as he unbuckled his armor. The plates fell to the ground and rolled along it, and his entire body felt lighter. Yurt sneered at him.

"You won't dodge me anymore," The Knight said.

And this time, he was the one to attack. He didn't care if Yurt couldn't die permanently. It didn't matter anymore. Yuria was lying there, she was bleeding to death, and all the miracle users were gone. This was fate, this was justice.

But all the same he still couldn't make contact, something had changed, and now his opponent's entire body was flaring with the desperate, life-or-death adrenaline he'd lacked before. Had the Nexial Binding stopped working? Was this now a fight to the death? He cautioned himself away from such comfortable thoughts.

When they parted again, he heard a voice right behind him, gently murmuring, "You're…._you're alive…_"

He stepped back, not taking his eyes off of Yurt, but he saw her in the edge of his vision. It was Yuria. She could still speak.

"Yes, I'm alive," he said, using all of his willpower not to look at her.

"…you can't beat him." She said.

"I can…" he murmured. His eyes clung to Yurt, standing there, waiting for him to drop his guard even for a moment.

She slowly shook her head, as if it were the most difficult thing she had ever done. "You…you can't. Give me your sword."

"You can't-" he started.

"..No, I…I'm not going to hold it. Put it near me."

"Yuria, give me some idea what you're talking about, please," he whispered.

"I don't have time…I'm dying, you have to listen to me…just-"

"You're not dying."

"I'm dying," she said. "You have to beat him…please…just…put the blade of your sword next to me."

He went completely still, and then did as she asked.

She looked at the sword, and whispered to it, and what was left of her arms ran along its sides. A Violent purple energy surged across it.

"Move quickly…this will drain you…just like it's drained me. Kill him. Now."

He charged.

Yurt wasn't as prepared as he should have been. When the sword swung through the air it caught his scalp. The Champion himself saw the flash of violet fire, and when Yurt stepped out of the way he stood still for a moment, and then grabbed at his head, hissing in pain.

"D…do it…" he heard Yuria whisper, across the Nexus. "Please…

Again, he charged, the sword swung as quickly and cleanly as if it were cutting the air itself. The dark energy swirled and ate away at the world. He felt a rot creep into him, a horrible violence. There was something deteriorating his soul. It festered like acid.

This time, all Yurt did was raise his hook to catch the blow. The wound on his head was spreading, the dark magic eating away at his flesh. When the two blades collided, there was a moment of resistance, and then the larger weapon cleaved through the other. Again, the dark energy ate away at the sides of the hook that fell to the ground, asunder.

Yurt stood with nothing more than a dagger. He rushed in, but his blade was feeble. The Champion put up his sword. The dagger was incinerated against it, and when he swung once more, he swung true. The sword cut Yurt along the chest, and the purple fire now spread along his abdomen. He fell to his knees, and his hands grabbed at the wounds spreading across him, swatting at them, trying to stop them.

The Champion dropped the sword, and backed away from it. He fell to a sitting position in his exhaustion. He couldn't hold it any longer.

Yurt grabbed at the fire, he even grabbed at his burning skin and tried to pull it off. All the while it spread over his skull, burning through the flesh, and then through the bone. The undamaged side of his face was consumed first, making him look like a dregling.

"No..." Yurt murmured. "Not like this, not through your filthy demon arts. I won't…" He looked up at the Champion, and said. "Kill me. Kill me with your sword. Please…not like this, don't let me die this way. Any other way. Any way at all…please…"

The Champion just stared.

"No! Get it off of me! Get rid of it! It's worse than fire, it's worse. It's torture. I feel it eating me, eating everything I am it grabs at me and I can't-" his words broke apart into a scream, and he fell to the ground, rolling back and forth, his hands grabbing at what was left of his head, but then it spread to them, too. It overcame his entire body, and finally his scream was cut short as it penetrated the last shred of his ghostly form, and incinerated that which lay within.

And as the shape of Yurt burnt away. Nothing was left but cinders. The Champion expected his Augite to absorb the soul…but he felt nothing. All that had been Yurt was gone.

He looked down at the Sword again, and the dark energy faded.

"God forgive me…" he murmured, realizing what he had done. "God…if you even exist, please forgive me."

He ran to Yuria, and crouched over her. She lay there, quietly, and her chest barely moved with the still present cadence of life.

"You…you came back…" she murmured.

"Of course I did," he said. "I promised you that, didn't I?"

"You promised…"

And all of the sudden, he frowned.

"I remember what I promised," he said.

"It's okay…" she whispered. "It was a stupid promise, anyway."

The thought occurred to hold her hand, and when he realized he couldn't grief struck him so hard that he wanted to turn away right there. But he couldn't. If he did, she'd be gone when he looked back.

"I'm glad you're back," she said. "You…you are the hope for this world…"

"No…" he said. "I couldn't even save you. Everything that happened with Yurt was my fault. I led him here, I embraced him…I ignored all of his violence…it's all me."

"Stop that. Blame him," she said. "Blame…ugh…"

"Yuria?" he whispered.

She closed her eyes.

"Yuria, Don't…please don't die." He looked up, he glanced around the Nexus. He saw her, sitting there. The idea came suddenly, as if it had already been waiting to be unlocked. "I'm going to carry you," he said to Yuria. "Just hold on, please."

She was silent.

He picked her up. The blood leaked onto him and ran throughout his clothes, but he tried to ignore it. He carried her toward the Maiden, leaving a red trail behind.

"Maiden," he said to her.

"What ist thy will?" she said, her face as blank as ever.

"Please…" he begged. "Yuria is dying. Bind her to the Nexus. Please, please bind her."

The Maiden just sat, she showed no expression.

"Why aren't you answering!?" he said. "I asked you to bind her!"

The Maiden stood, and raised her staff. Calmly and carefully, she lit it.

"What are you doing!?" He ran at her, carrying Yuria, shoving her into her face. "I'm begging you! I'm begging you _for everything that I have left! Bind her to the Nexus! Please! I need her!"_

The Maiden looked down at him once more, and then started walking up the stairs. She lit one candle. Two. Like an animal, he crawled after her, begging, fighting back his tears to at least sound coherent.

And not once did she respond.

And in his arms, Yuria's final drops of blood leaked from her wounds.

That was where she died.

-

He sat across from her, staring at her blank face.

"Why won't you do it?" he asked.

She didn't respond.

"I'm just asking you to help me, once," he said. "I'm just asking to have what I want, one time."

She carefully reached, and grabbed a golden bowl. Inside there were a few pieces of bread. She felt around, and finally managed to wrap her fingers around one. The crust flowed through the gaps in her knuckles as she stuffed it into her mouth and chewed it messily.

"It's not even for me," he said. "I just want to help her. That's all I want. I made her a promise. Let me keep it."

She swallowed.

"I've done _everything _that you've asked me to!" He stood. "I've killed countless demons! I've died countless times! I've lost my own identity for you! And you won't do one thing, _once, _when I'm just asking you to save a _single person _for me! Am I a tool to you!? Do you just send me out to fight battles so that you don't have to!? You don't do anything! Everyone is dead, now. _Everyone! _And you did _nothing _to stop it! Even after the fact, you won't bring _one_ of them back. No, not a _single _person. You're just going to leave their souls floating around out there…food for your beloved Old One!"

She just sat there.

"Are you even listening to me?"

She reached into the bowl, pulled out a piece of bread, and handed it to him.

He kicked the bowl, and when he did she immediately held up her hands, backed away, and cowered, in a practiced motion. The bowl flew off of her lap and rolled down the stairs. Bread scattered along them.

He glared at her, and she started shaking. Soft whimpers came from her frame.

As he looked, he realized how pathetic and defenseless she was, and his rage turned to disgust.

For a moment longer, he watched her cower, then he scoffed, and went upstairs.

-

"You are the hope that the world will be mended. You are everything to us."

He looked the childlike statue in the eye, "you have a terrible way of showing it."

"An explanation is required, I understand."

"No," he said, shaking his head. "I don't want to hear it…whatever it is, it isn't an excuse. And it's not an excuse for me to keep doing this, either. No one person should have this much responsibility. No one person should have to deal with this. It's a matter for an army…not just a single soldier."

"You promised that you would grant my request."

"I didn't know your promise would entail this," he said, as he unsheathed his sword. He placed it before the foot of the statue. "I'm sorry, but I am a human being. I have my own wants and desires…and you don't care about them. I'm done."

"Reconsider, please."

He stood up.

"I'm asking you reconsider."

He turned, and walked past the dead statues, that had deteriorated over time. The children who had frozen themselves in order to remain the only hope for the world.

"This is a plan a thousand years in the making. Without you, it can't succeed. Please."

The Champion didn't listen. He reached the end of the catwalk, and exited.

-

"I'm sorry, Yuria," he whispered, looking over the dead body. "I'm sorry that I'm not what you needed me to be. I'm…I'm…"

And then he broke apart. His entire frame shook with grief. Violent sobs wracked him and he fell to his knees. Every time he thought he was going to stop, he looked up again, and he saw her there, mutilated. Yurt was on him, everything that had happened was. _He _had done this. _He _had bled her out like a pig. She was dead because of _him._

The entire world was being swallowed now, and good. To oblivion with this world, in which the souls of the dead lingered and were eaten by the strong. In which love couldn't flourish because of violence, and every grace, every miracle, and every prayer was secretly a veneration of something vile. No more. And he meant it this time. No more.

The Maiden in Black listened silently to his cries. For a moment, she went still. But only for a moment. She had to move on. There were many more candles to light.

-

Alright, so, this is actually going to be the last chapter of this story for a while. College is starting to kick my ass, and I'm also trying to write a(n actual, legitimate) book as well as various short stories that I'm _hoping _will get published. This is a very fun diversion for me. That being said, I do hope to continue it, and in the (eventually) upcoming chapters I hope to actually get into the Maiden in Black stuff that I've been putting aside for the Yurt/Yuria plot line. Which (as you can tell) is now clearly over.

Anyway, farewell for now. Consider this the end of Season 1, if you will.


	11. You Listen to Him

"'You don't talk with that man—you listen to him.'"

-Joseph Conrad, _Heart of Darkness_

The Dregling ran its fingers along the ground, drawing in the dirt and forming shapes and symbols. Some aspect of its mind, once human, recognized the letters that it was trying to create. But that was buried deep. Too deep.

And it faded the moment the Dregling smelled human.

_Souls, _it thought, and scurried along the ground thinking nothing else at all. It was a smart Dregling, yes it was. It had learned from the others. Running on two legs was too slow. No, you had to scramble, you had to pull with your hands, too. That was why This One always got its souls first, why it was always ahead of the pack.

It scrambled this way up the stairs to the castle, and heard as the smell grew stronger. Metal, clanking, something running. Two somethings. If the Dregling had been conscious it would have understood that this was a bad sign. It would have been capable of realizing that two full armored knights with sharpened weapons were not a good match for itself; half naked and wielding a broken blade.

But even its own thoughts of self-preservation were buried. Far too deep.

The Dregling put itself up against a stone wall. It heard the metal clanking slow and come to a stop on the other side. Instinct alone compelled it to wait. An opportunity for ambush would come soon.

On that other side of the wall, voices spoke up. Two. A younger one with the courtly tone of nobility, and an older one with the rough accent of a warrior.

"Milord, I-" The older voice began.

The young one interrupted, "Don't call me that, Biorr. There may be curious ears nearby."

"I'm not seeing the point of the secrecy, lad."

"There are Demons here capable of conscious thought, Biorr. Demons who can know and remember things. Until we find my father, we aren't safe spreading my name around. I'm this kingdom's last hope. They'll know that, too."

"Whatever ye say. Regardless, Lord...uh...Ostrava was it? Regardless Lord Ostrava, I'm not as young as I was, anymore. If ye want me to keep up with ye, we gotta rest."

"You always want to rest, Biorr."

"You wanna try wearin me armor for fifteen seconds?"

"...Point taken. Fine. We'll rest. But we need to move quickly. If my father is still alive, he's in trouble."

The Dregling heard the word _rest _and recognized it, perhaps not on a conscious level, but on a strong enough one that it understood its targets would be vulnerable. It looked for suitable grips in the wall, and when it found them, it began to scale it, doing its best to remain silent.

"I still don't understand why yer so sure yer daddy's alright," the old voice said, accompanied by a powerful clanking. Its owner was sitting down.

"I'm not, Biorr. But look at it this way: if there's someone who is still alive, it's him. Kings have access to the kind of resources that commoners don't. Also, kings are valuable, and if they saw fit to imprison you rather than killing you outright, I've no doubt they've done the same for him."

The Dregling reached the top of the wall and looked over. It saw two knights, sitting. One thinner, but with seemingly impenetrable armor, and the other tall and broad, with armor just as impenetrable...but what appeared to be layers of it.

"That damned jailer," the man in the layers of armor grumbled. "Those ministers got the jump on me while I was sleepin. Thanks for that lad, by the way. I don't remember if I properly gave gratitude."

"No thanks are necessary," the thinner Knight said. "Why would I have ever left you there? From the moment I saw you imprisoned, it's not like I had a choice. Thank god, instead, that I found you."

"I have the feelin that the almighty doesn't deserve our thanks, at the moment," Biorr said. "After all, look at what's happened to your king-whoa!"

The Dregling jumped down on top of the armored man, its feet landing perfectly on his shoulders. Without losing a moment it swung its blade. Again, and again, and again.

_ Die die die! Souls souls souls!_

It didn't even pay enough attention to realize that the blade didn't leave a scratch. That its flabby and rotting muscles couldn't even give enough force for the body within to feel it. Finally, the rusty remains of its sword shattered against the armor, and it began biting and scratching.

The figure it had jumped on stood up, and cocked his head to look at it.

"Isn't that cute, lad? He thinks he can hurt me."

On top of the moving figure, the Dregling lost its footing and tumbled. It scratched to stay on, before finally managing to bite into his arm. It held like a rabid pit bull, growling as it continued to claw its adversary.

"Don't ridicule it, Biorr. This was one of my subjects, once. Even if it isn't a threat, it's still a tragedy."

"Whatever ye say, lad...but in that case, ye wanna do the honors?"

"They aren't honors, but...yes."

The Dregling squirmed as its enemy threw it off. It hit the ground with a thud, and tried as hard as it could to right itself in time.

But it felt the sword through its chest before it was on its feet.

It looked down at the pure steel, so much sharper and harder than its own, then looked up into the beaver-covered face just above. It gasped, and a bubble of blood rose from its throat and popped.

"I'm sorry," the knight above it said. "I hope that, in whatever's next, you come to yourself again."

It scratched. It clawed. It fought for souls even as it could no longer breathe. But the face did not turn from it, did not waver, did not even move. Its final sight was that steel, as its vision faded away into darkness.

* * *

"Keep up, Biorr."

"Do ye even remember our last conversation, lad?"

"We've been running fifteen minutes."

"_Exactly._"

Ostrava of Boletaria sighed, but did not slow. They didn't have time. It could even be said that they were already out of time. The kingdom was overrun, and as far as he could tell, there were no survivors.

He envied Biorr. He didn't know what it was that allowed his companion to distance himself. Perhaps he had fought so many battles that he'd learned to take horrific events as a matter of course, perhaps he, as a knight, had learned not to think about the larger implications of what was going on around him.

Regardless, it was a trait that Ostrava did not share.

The only reason he could look at the Demons as he fought them was because if he didn't, he'd die in an instant. After they died, however, and he gazed at their fallen, mutated bodies, he felt sick. Demons were not aliens, they were corruptions of men and women of his country, or of plants or animals or even inanimate objects once present within it.

In the moments when he contemplated this, he looked at Biorr, and felt weak.

"Slow yerself down, lad," the big man roared.

"Biorr, we can't rest again," Ostrava said without looking back.

"No, I mean it this time. _Slow down. Listen._"

Ostrava's feet ground to a stop, and as the clanking of his own armor silenced, he heard it. Powerful _whooshes _of air being kicked through the sky.

"It sounds like a giant bird," he said.

Biorr shook his head, "that's no bird."

As if on cue, what answered was a ghastly cry, so powerful and horrific that it sounded like an army of beasts crying at once. Ostrava turned, and saw it sitting there, perched on the wall they had just passed through: a massive red dragon. Its eyes seemed to burn as it glared down at them. Its mouth opened, sucking in the air around it.

"I think we should start running again," Biorr said.

Ostrava said nothing, but turned, and sprinted as much as his plated legs would allow. The earth rumbled as, behind him, the Dragon's roar erupted again. This time, however, it transformed into the scream of an inferno halfway through. He didn't see the fire, but he saw the bright reflection of orange light in front of him, and he felt the heat of it through his armor.

"Keep running, lad."

They took off past the wall, and over the great bridge, stumbling as they tried to avoid overturned carts and dead horses. Ostrava's stomach clenched. Refugees. Near the end, refugees had lined up along this bridge, trying to reach the town within the inner walls. But there were too many. The nobles never would have been able to let them in. So they died here, after coming from all throughout the kingdom, begging for entry, for safety.

But he couldn't think of that now. There was a dragon behind him.

"Biorr, are you keeping up?"

"There's something about a colossal dragon behind ye that gives yer feet wings, lad."

"Good to hear."

Behind them, he heard the dragon take off, it's wings sending gusts that almost knocked him over. It soared along the bridge, and he heard the roar of its fire scorching the remains of his subjects. In front of them was an open doorway into a tower a checkpoint along the road, their only hope.

"_Go! Go!" _He screamed over the flames, and again felt their heat against them before they were suddenly blocked off by a ceiling above. They'd made it to the tower.

"Bloody hell," Biorr cursed.

"We're not done, yet," said Ostrava.

They both looked up to see the rest of the bridge winding on, up to the castle proper.

* * *

They rushed through the final set of gates, and realized, to their dismay, that there was no roof. The courtyard was open.

"I can't keep this up, lad," Biorr said, panting.

"Neither can I...I can't believe how persistent that thing is," Ostrava said.

"It's a demon, lad."

And they both knew the truth in that. Demons would go to any length for a human soul. It was just the way they operated.

"What's that sword doin there?" Biorr said, pointing to a upright sword jabbed, blade-first, into a few stones. A strange blue glow surrounded it.

"I'm not sure...magic?"

"Why would any sorcerer cast a spell, then up and leave it there?"

They heard the wingbeats again.

"No time! Keep running!" Ostrava said.

And they did, but it was no use. This time, the next shelter was too far: all the way across the massive courtyard without any break. The fire came behind them, and it was gaining too fast. Without thinking, Ostrava grabbed Biorr and jumped away.

Or tried to. His feet barely left the ground under the weight of his armor. He fell, and they rolled. The fire missed by inches. He saw the scorched trail it had left behind, right next to his head.

They stood up more clumsily than they had fallen, and by then the dragon was coming around again.

"We can make it this time, Biorr," Ostrava said, making sure that all his plates were in place.

"...Lad, ye sure we want to?"

"What do you-" Ostrava answered his own question as he looked up.

They came from the opposite gate like a small army. Knights in black armor wielding massive weapons. It was clear to even look at them that they had no discipline, but they moved together, regardless. Ostrava didn't count them. He couldn't. What mattered was that they were many. _Too _many.

"It's been an honor fighting with ye," Biorr said.

Ostrava turned back to Biorr and looked at him. The knight's face was hidden by his beaver, but his resignation was clear from his posture.

"_No,_" Ostrava said. "For the sake of this kingdom, I can't die. And if you're with me, you won't, either."

"Then ideas would be nice, lad."

Ostrava turned back, the dragon was flying toward them from one side, he heard its wings beat as it glided down, the knights were coming from the other, and he saw them readying a charge.

In the center that blue sword protruded, with its strange glow.

"When all else fails: magic," Ostrava said, then charged.

Biorr took off after him.

Perhaps in response to their running, the black knights took off, as well. Ostrava could make out gross perversions of human faces on the fronts of their helmets. They raised their spears and rushed. If they reached them, Ostrava knew they would be shredded. Still, he ran full force in their direction.

Behind them, the dragon roared again, and he felt the heat. The fire ran up the courtyard again. The time came and went for them to duck out of the way. This time, they wouldn't be able to avoid it.

And in front of them rested the sword. Ostrava didn't know what he would do when he got there. He'd pull it out. He'd fight with it. It would have some sort of power, it had to. Then he was there. He was there and he was about to touch it. His arm came out and grasped the handle just as one of the spears was about to punch through his plates, just as the dragonfire was about to cook him inside of his armor as if it were an iron pan.

And then he _wasn't_ there.

* * *

The Maiden in black finished lighting the candles for the third time in the last few hours.

Usually, by the time she finished, one of the ones near the bottom would be extinguished. Most would be frustrated by this. She accepted it as a matter of course.

But this time, as she carefully tapped her rod down each stair, her hand feeling the wall for its familiar knicks and ridges, she heard something much different.

In the center of the Nexus, two screaming figures suddenly burst into existence. There was a pause, and then a vicious _clank, _presumably as they hit the ground.

It was followed by a pained groaning from both of them.

The Maiden In Black considered, for a moment, then returned to her duties.

"Lad, am I on top of ye, or are ye on top of me?"

"I don't know...but...we're alive. Biorr, Biorrr, we're alive! We're alive!"

He laughed almost maniacally, and heard his laughs echo throughout whatever vacant room they now found themselves in. It was clearly indoors. There was no wind, and it was stuffy. Surrounding them was nothing more or less than absolute silence.

"Okay, I realized that I'm on top of ye, now. Sorry."

"It's no problem...just, just get up, Biorr."

"Right, right," the big man said, and again he clumsily pulled himself to his feet. Ostrava got up from under him.

Beneath them was a strange, almost glass-like black surface, with symbols dancing along it, and surrounding them were spirals of stairs with lit candles around them. Columns held up the massive room, far taller than it was long, and there were no doors, either to enter or exit. Instead, stone faces stared at the knights. Six of them. Five were still clear, and glared with a gaze that somehow seemed alive, and the sixth was tarnished beyond all recognition.

"Wait...I know this place," said Ostrava. "This is the Nexus. Back...before...mages would use this place to travel quickly throughout the kingdom. It's connected to everywhere else, through a network of teleportation."

And as he looked around, he spotted her, using her rod to light a candle, a young, slight girl. Her back was turned to him and he could make out her long black hair blending into her dark robes.

"You, girl," Ostrava said. "This is the Nexus, correct?"

She turned, and both men gasped when they saw her face.

She had obviously been very beautiful once, perhaps in a very different time, but her eyes were covered, she was rendered sightless by wax.

Her mouth opened, but she said nothing, and then turned away again, carefully lighting the candle she had been paying attention to.

"A blind candle-maiden..." murmured Biorr. "Irony."

"Not just blind. Someone did this to her...I wonder if it was the mages...some of them have always had a penchant for cruelty."

"This place is older than your mages," another voice said.

Ostrava's gaze went down the stairs, and he saw the figure sitting there, not so far from the Maiden. He didn't know how he hadn't seen the man, but at the same time he didn't know how he would have noticed him. The figure was so still that it may as well have been a statue. It blended into the lifelessness of the environment around it.

"I'm sorry, I didn't see you there," Ostrava said. "I am Ostrava of Boletaria."

The figure didn't move, and didn't say anything.

"Biorr of the Twin Fangs, pleased to meet ye," Biorr said. He moved closer, and offered up his hand.

The figured looked down at the hand, then back up at Biorr. He did nothing else. Biorr chuckled awkwardly, and backed away.

Ostrava analyzed the figure. He was wearing armor, much like Ostrava's own. However, it was nicked and cut and virtually destroyed in some places. It would no longer function in combat. He looked as though he had once been a knight, but was now ragged, deteriorated in body and, though it was harder to spot, in soul.

"Your companion...what happened to her eyes?" Ostrava asked.

"I don't know," the figure said. "Whatever it was, I'm sure she deserved it."

Ostrava saw the woman visibly jolt, as if struck.

"What did you just say?" Biorr said, a faint anger rising.

"I didn't say much," said the figure. "I _implied _that she's a filthy cretin...no, too polite...she's a cunt, and if her eyes were poured over by hot, burning wax, it was too kind for her."

Biorr shoved Ostrava out of the way and stepped forward, "A man of arms shed never speak that way of a lady! Why I should-"

But he was silenced.

The blind woman had run over, almost falling in her clumsy, sightless movement, and placed herself between Biorr and the figure he was threatening, her arms widened as if to guard him. Again, the man gave no response. He just stared.

Ostrava watched Biorr relax. The maiden's arms went down. She stood up, almost falling again, and Biorr reached out as if to catch her...but she managed to make it to her feet. She walked over to her discarded rod, lit it on a candle, and returned to her business.

"Pathetic, isn't she?" the figure said, without looking back at her. "She helps me even as I tear at her, even as I curse everything about her and tell her how I would kill her...kill myself...if I only could. Sometimes I feel sorry for her. Usually I don't. I don't even feel sorry for myself anymore. The world rotates, and with every second more lives are lost. More people suffer. What distinguishes my concerns from the whole? What distinguishes any of us...I...I don't think anything does."

There was a silence. Neither Ostrava nor Biorr knew how to respond.

"I don't think I'm allowed to consider myself important. Am I?"

More silence.

"I...I didn't get your name," Ostrava managed to stammer out.

"I had one, once," the figure said. "But...no. No longer. No longer..."

They looked at him, as he cradled his head in his hands, and Ostrava heard faint sobs, mixing in with his weary voice, repeating it as if it were a mantra.

"No longer...no longer..."

* * *

Yes, I put a quote from classic literature in a fanfic. Why? Because I _can._

You didn't think I wouldn't make good on my promise to continue this, did you?


	12. Lost and Found

Ostrava sat, staring at the figure in front of him. The figure stared back, but did not move, not even to breathe. He was frozen, his broken frame nothing more than a shadow. Biorr's snoring echoed throughout the Nexus, and was the only sound between the three of them.

The Candle Maiden walked down the stairs carrying something. Ostrava moved his eyes from the man for one moment to see that it was a slab of meat. He wondered where she had gotten it, where food came from in this place, but decided not to ask questions.

The Maiden walked to the dark figure and handed him the food, but he didn't raise up his arm to take it. She gestured at him, and tapped him, and tried to get him to pay attention to her, but to no avail. Finally, she gave up, and placed the meat on his lap. He didn't touch it.

"You aren't going to win that staring contest, friend," Ostrava suddenly heard.

He almost jumped, but instead turned slowly. Sitting next to him was an old man wearing hooded robes.

"You're scared?" the old man said tentatively.

"No...not scared, just startled. I didn't think there was anyone here other than those two."

"There are other survivors, not many," said the old man.

"Survivors? Survivors from what? Was this place attacked?"

"Well-" the old man started.

"We won't discuss this," said the figure with the meat on its lap, abruptly. It was the first thing he had said in hours.

And it was followed by silence between all of them.

"I'm sorry," Ostrava said. "I didn't get your name."

"Sage Freke," said the old man, with a smile belying the awkwardness of the shadowy man's gaze.

"Wait..._the _Sage Freke? You can't be serious."

"Unfortunately, yes," the old man said. "I came here to learn, and because I had faith in my own abilities. Whatever was hidden in the fog couldn't be so bad that I couldn't handle it...at least I thought. But I was captured, and my own apprentice had to ask that boy to rescue me."

Freke pointed at the weary knight.

"He saved you?"

"Of course he did. He was very competent...before...well, before what happened."

"You're talking about him like he isn't even here..." Ostrava whispered.

"For the most part, he isn't," Freke said, without whispering at all.

"What do you mean?" Ostrava asked.

"He's bound to the Nexus. He cannot die. That is both his gift and his curse. When his corporeal body is too damaged, however, he loses it. His soul reforms here as a solid entity."

"So...he's a ghost."

"In a sense," Freke said. "But he's just as conscious and present as if he were a man...or, he used to be."

"Stop talking about me..." the figure murmured, very quietly. "I'm...I'm right here..."

There was another pause.

"He has his lucid moments," Freke continued, despite the figure's plea. "But they're fewer and fewer by the hour. Before this, he had been sustaining himself off of the power of demons, acquiring new bodies and slowing this process...but it's gone too far, now. It's only a matter of time."

"Until what?" Ostrava asked.

"Until he discorporates entirely, and becomes nothing more than energy, the fragment of a soul ripe for consumption."

"That's...awful," Ostrava said.

"Yes," Freke murmured, a glint in his eyes visible beneath his hood. "It is."

"I don't understand, though. He was aware when I came here. We talked to him."

Freke nodded, "Like I said: Lucid moments, but they're few and far between."

"If slaying demons restored him, why didn't he keep doing it?" Ostrava asked.

"Because he doesn't want to."

"No...never..." the figure murmured, in a tone that made it impossible to tell whether what he was saying applied to their conversation or not.

"Why on earth not?" Ostrava said.

"Ask him yourself, when he's conscious again. But to give you an idea: he had a corporeal body a few days ago. This time, a Demon didn't take it from him. He took care of that himself."

Ostrava shot a glare at Freke, and saw that he was serious, then took a look back at the tangible soul sitting on the stairs. It let out a low groan that transformed into an unearthly shout, without moving its body at all, then went silent again.

There was a long, silent pause. Ostrava looked away. He couldn't hold his focus on that being. He couldn't think about it. What was happening to him was just...horrific. Too horrific.

He needed to get back to his mission.

"Who is in charge, here?" Ostrava asked Freke.

"If I could point to anyone, it would be the monumental."

"What's the monumental?"

Freke turned his head and looked at Ostrava. "You have a lot to learn."

* * *

The stairs were hard to mount for a man in armor, but Ostrava was above such gripes and complaints. He had to speak to this monumental. He had to discover what it knew and how it could help him save his kingdom.

As he turned through an arch, he saw her, lighting the candles as always, the Maiden in Black.

"Milady," he said in greeting.

She turned and looked at him, silently.

"The monumental is above, correct?"

"Yes," she said, in a quiet voice that seemed to echo against the walls.

He nodded, "I want to ask you something, as long as I'm here."

"...No," she said, and turned away.

"You haven't heard my question," he said.

"I am not here for thee. Speakest to the Monumental to answer thy concerns."

"But my questions are regarding you, I-"

"-I am not here for thee," she repeated.

"Milady, why do you treat me so coldly?"

Silence.

Ostrava growled and gave up. He kept going up the stairs, past her. She didn't turn to look at him as he went.

He met the monumental surrounded by the remains of its dead brothers.

It alone had two lit candles on either side of its head, though around it there were endless rows of children that looked exactly like it. He couldn't tell, even as he watched it, whether it was a statue or still the body of a human. The candle-light made it no more obvious.

"Prince Ariana Allant," The Monumental said, as soon as it spotted him.

He stepped backward and almost fell over the railing. "How do you know my real name?"

"Trying to hide things from me is rather purposeless," said the Monumental. "It is my duty to know everything, and I have the magic required to do that. Even if you could, I'm on your side."

Ostrava thought for a moment, then spoke carefully, "I didn't want to risk that."

"It's not a risk," said the Monumental. "You have more important questions, though."

"Yes, I do," said Ostrava. "Tell me what this place is.

And in the faint light of the candles, the Monumental explained the Nexus to him, its mouth unmoving as a disembodied voice emanated from it. The Monumental explained the Old One, explained how it had come in his time, and how he and his brothers had sacrificed themselves knowing that, in the end, they may not live to see the day when it rose again.

Ostrava sat, and listened. It was the same story that seemed to fill this world. A story fighting within the aura of hopelessness.

"Can I ask you about some of the people who inhabit this place?" he said, next.

"Certainly," said the Monumental.

"On the way up here, I spoke to the Candle Maiden...where did she come from? Why are her eyes covered with wax...and why does she speak that way?"

"Ah, yes, her...She was once one of the most powerful Demons. I believe she still is," said the Monumental, as if it were something flippantly casual. "If I remember correctly she rivals the Old One."

Ostrava opened his mouth to respond, but there were no words. For almost a full minute, he could not speak.

Then he heard a great laughter emanating from the statue. It was a relief. Everything made sense again.

"You're joking," Ostrava said, as he came to the conclusion himself.

"No, no I'm not," said the Monumental. "But I said it that way in order to see your reaction. It gets quite boring up here."

"You are actually telling me," said Ostrava. "That that girl is on the same level of power as the King of all Demons?"

"More or less. Possibly more. She seems to have faith in her abilities," said the Monumental.

"H-how? Where is she from? When? How does a young girl-"

"I'm sorry, I can't answer those questions," the Monumental interrupted.

"You said you'd answer everything!"

"I _can _answer everything...except for questions about the Maiden in Black. She is the one thing in this realm I hold no authority over, you understand. I have no right to speak of her any more than I have. If you want to know of her past, ask her yourself."

"She won't talk to me."

"Then that's the end of that line of inquiry."

Ostrava stammered, "I thought you were the leader here, I was told you hold authority over all the Nexus."

"That I do," he said. "But not her. I pity any man who tries to hold authority over her. She's surprisingly stubborn, and it's not like it's possible to force her to do anything."

"I'm beginning to understand that," Ostrava said, remembering their earlier conversation.

"Regardless, we shan't speak of her further, any other questions?"

"I want to ask about that man that she seems so empathetic toward. Who is he, really? Freke didn't seem to know anything about him before he rescued him."

The Monumental was silent.

"...Hello?" Ostrava said.

"Yes...there's almost nothing left of who he was, before."

"But do you remember? Can you tell me?"

"All that you need to know," said the Monumental. "Is that he was our last hope."

* * *

Sage Freke sat down next to the man who had once been called Her Champion, Her Knight, the Demonslayer, and many other names in lieu of the one he had lost.

It struck him, as he pondered over it, that those were now gone, too. There was nothing left of this being resembling an identity...but that could not be allowed. This was the man who had saved Freke, who had rescued him from the clutches of Mind Flayers. He must be repaid.

"Are you alright, son?" he started out, though he knew the answer.

"I...I can think right now," said the figure. "I'm here...I don't know how long..."

Freke nodded, "then we should talk quickly."

"What can you possibly have to talk about..." the figure said, his voice did not conclude, but faded out, even when he was lucid. This was a new development, and it worried Freke further.

"I need to help you."

The figure looked down to the ground, "I don't want help..."

"I don't care," Freke said.

He shook his head, "If it's happening; if I'm fading, just let it happen...don't fight it...it's the closest thing to death I'll have..."

"No," said Freke. "That's the last thing I'll do."

"But-..."

"Listen," Freke said, glaring at him. "I've been researching the Demonic Arts, the power that Yuria used, along with miracles. If you are willing to let me use you for some experiments, maybe I can figure out a way to-"

"-Accomplish absolutely nothing..." he interrupted.

Freke stood up, angrily, "do you _not _understand what's happening here!?" he yelled.

"You won't accept that I've given up...?"

"No!" Freke said. "This _giving up _in the first place is a result of _her! _It's because of what she's done to you! The _Maiden in Black, _sent you on a Fool's Errand to fight every Archdemon, and you did well for it, I must say. But that isn't humanly possible, and you know it! She, and the Monumental, and everyone else here put that pressure on you. They inflated you out to be a hero...and then told you that they needed you to engage in ridiculous pursuits you'd never succeed at. They made you place every bit of yourself on that, and now that you are no longer doing it, those shreds of self are leaving you! Do you not understand what is happening, here? They planned this!"

"That's an elaborate plan, Freke..."

"Is it?" Freke said. "Really, think about it. The Monumental has no physical power, and the Maiden doesn't want to use hers. Did you ever clear an area of demons? Did you ever lead it to being cleared...? No, you just grew stronger, you became a Demon. That is what I am telling you, that they are trying to turn you into the next Archdemon, or kill you in the process!"

There was a pause.

"You've spent too much time on your own, Freke..."

"No, listen!" said Freke. "As I run my experiments I'm beginning to detect soul auras with more accuracy. Do you have any idea how powerful your Maiden is? If she wanted to take on the Old One, she'd do it! How hard could it be for her? You said it yourself: she admitted to serving it. Regarding the Monumental, what do you know other than his self-proclaimed story? Nothing! In fact, there are no historical records of the Old One visiting Boletaria before. His time could have been lost to antiquity, but it's just as likely that he's lying!"

"How is this even supposed to comfort me...?"

"It's supposed to remind you that you have a purpose outside of the one that they have designed for you," Freke said. "You are a human being, god damn it. Your entire life is not a question of whether or not you can serve them. Don't even try to. No man could. I can help you recover your old self, and escape this place. Just let me use you for my research. Please."

He just shook his head, "No..."

"Are you deaf? I have given valid arguments. I have given you reason upon reason why the Maiden is betraying you, why she is manipulating you in order to-"

Suddenly, the figure turned his head, and Freke followed his gaze. The Maiden in Black was right there, her head bowed.

There was a moment of fear before Freke remembered that she would never do anything.

He heard sounds emanating from her. Soft ones. They took form and became more solid, and finally he realized that she was trying to cry, but whatever tears she had would never make it past the wax. If he felt any sympathy for her, it would have been sad, but knowing what he knew, it was just pathetic and disgusting.

"Consider my offer," Freke said, to the figure sitting on the stairs. Then turned around and walked away.

After Freke left, the man who had once had a name looked up, and saw the Maiden in Black grabbing at her waxed over eyes. He saw her turn, and face the wall, and put her entire body against it. The stone silenced her as she slumped to her knees, and the only expression of her grief became her fist, hitting the wall over and over.

Her rod fell from her grasp, and clattered down the stairs. It landed next to him. He looked at it, and watched as the candle within it extinguished, then looked straight ahead again. He did not look back up at her.

A minute later, maybe two, he heard her voice, "...Doth thou heed him? Doth thou believest him?"

Silence.

"Speakest thy thoughts. I plead thee."

But he didn't even look at her.

"Ist thou truly that lost? I...I apologize."

He felt her arms against his back. He felt them run partially through him.

"Forsooth, it ist my doing. I have broken thee, mine words shalt never convey my sorrow. Come back...I beg thee, Return. It no longer matterst, even, if thee slay the Demons...just...come back."

But he did not hear her. His lucid moment faded away, and his mind once again became a series of fragments, battling each other for supremacy.

* * *

Biorr was woken from his sleep by a powerful kick, and even in his half-awake stupor he knew who it was at once.

"Ack...damn it, lad," he said, as he looked up. Ostrava stood there, clearly impatient.

"We don't have time to rest anymore, Biorr. I know what to do to save my Kingdom, now. I need you to help me."

"Fine, but isn't it better to save a Kingdom on a full night's rest?" Biorr griped.

"I'll estimate I got about six hours. Enough," Ostrava said. "Besides, more or less sleep won't make where we're about to go any better."

"Alright, lad, what did ye learn and how did ye learn it?"

"I'll answer the second question first: The Monumental. As for the first, good news. There are five archdemons...one for each of those stones. Before..." he looked over at the figure on the stairs. "...Before he became...unfortunate, he killed three: The Dragon God, the Old Monk, and the Storm King."

"Bloody hell, that boy got things done," Biorr said, looking at the young man in a new way.

"Yes, well...there are still two left. One is past the archstone we came from, and is ruling over the castle proper, but that one is apparently the most dangerous. The Monumental told me that isn't worth attempting until we know what we're doing...in the mean time, however. There is an Archdemon in the Valley of Defilement."

Biorr blinked. "The Valley of—no, lad, _no._"

"I understand, Biorr, but we don't have a choice."

"Ahh..." Biorr groaned, cupping his head in his hands. "That place was hell before the demons. God only knows what it's like, now."

"Have you been there?"

"Course I have, ye?"

"...Of course not. I'm nobility, remember?"

Biorr sighed. "Explains how ye can possibly be nonchalant about this."

"I didn't consider the place as bad news as the story I was given."

"Story?" Biorr asked, looking up again.

Ostrava nodded. "The Archdemon...it's Saint Astraea."

The head of the figure across the room perked up, and watched them.

Biorr burst out laughing, as if it was a joke, but when Ostrava went silent, he cut short.

"No...that's not right. A saint would never-especially not ol' Astra...she..."

"The Monumental knew things it shouldn't have known, Biorr, it knew them about me. So I must assume that what it told me here was true, as well."

"But...why in the bloody hell would she ever...?"

"I don't know, and the Monumental either didn't know, or wouldn't tell me. The point is: we have to go there, and we have to kill her, or on the off-chance that the monumental _is _wrong, find and kill the real archdemon. The point is, we're going there, and we have to be prepared to confront her, and the Holy Knight serving her: Garl Vinland."

The figure across the room slowly got to his feet. He stared at them both, and then began to walk.

"_Garl?" _Biorr stammered. "Lad, understand...I know these people, Vallarfax and I fought alongside em. Ye can't just ask me to go killin' im without even talkin to im."

"If that's necessary, you'll have to do it," Ostrava said, coldly. "I'm sorry."

"Ah, hell."

"Any other questions? Because we're wasting time," said Ostrava.

"Yes..." a voice said. "Can I come...?"

They both turned to see the weary knight standing before them. His disheveled armor hanging off of his body.

"What...the..." Ostrava said almost silently.

The figure just looked at them both, as if there were nothing wrong with him.

"Uh...ye'll need better armor, lad. At least."

"I can get it repaired..." he said. "Just give me some time..."

"Time we don't have..." Ostrava grumbled.

"Additional men are always welcome, lad," said Biorr. "We should bring 'im."

"But..." Ostrava said.

"But what?" said Biorr.

Ostrava looked at the figure, who stood there just as if he were a normal soldier.

"...Fine. Get your armor repaired, I guess. We'll wait."

The figure nodded, and turned.

"Well...I wasn't expecting that," Said Biorr.

And The Maiden in Black, who had been sitting on the edge of the stairs above, heard all of this.

* * *

The three of them stood in front of the stone.

"Are you ready, Biorr?" Ostrava asked.

"No...but I don't think I will be, so let's just go."

"Good enough...are you ready...uh...?"

The figure looked at him, and nodded.

"Alright then...we just put our hands up to the statue and...?"

Without saying anything, the figure touched the stone face, and was gone.

"Well, that's yer answer, lad," said Biorr, and did the same.

Ostrava looked back, and saw the Candle Maiden blindly staring in his direction. He knew for certain, however, that her attention was not on him.

He put his hand to the face as well, and was no longer in the Nexus.

In the darkness above, the Monumental tried to predict the future.

But the Deep Fog blocked his sight of time, as well as space.

He'd simply have to be grateful that The Champion was active again, though he did not know, or understand why. He'd have to hope for the best.

And in the darkness below, Freke's experiments continued. Slowly, very slowly, he began to realize that he was learning things no man ever had. Power greeted him. Power and knowledge interwoven into something unmistakably beautiful, something that would improve all of humanity.

He knew then, for the first time, that he could not give this up.

* * *

I don't know if the next chapters will be as long as this one, so don't get your hopes up.

Also, if you like my writing, regardless of if it's about your favorite fandom, follow me on tumblr. (The Link is on my profile) I'm trying to build up a fanbase, or at least a group of people who like to read my stuff a lot.

Regardless of whether you like my writing or just Demon's Souls, thanks for sticking with me even after the two and a half month break. I fully intend to finish this.

P.S: Fun fact. My last name is rooted in the Germanic word Madchen, used to refer to a young girl or (surprise surprise) a Maiden. Thought I'd just share that.


	13. Harsh Truths

They rose from nothing, and the smell greeted them immediately.

"Shit," Biorr said, covering his nose the moment he was tangible.

"I wouldn't be surprised," Ostrava said.

Around them, small droplets of rain hit the wooden planks they stood on, making an amateur catwalk over the valley. It formed a mess of rotting wood and extinguishing flames, the only light in the dark fog.

"We shouldn't have come at night," Ostrava said, after thinking.

"Lad, it's always night, here," Biorr said. "The sun'll never break through those clouds."

Ostrava looked up into the starless sky.

"We should watch our step..." said The Figure, stepping forward past them. Ostrava realized for the first time that his footsteps made no sound. His movements were entirely silent.

"If we're going to be working with you," said Ostrava. "We need something to call you."

The Figure stopped, and didn't turn.

"What am I?" he asked.

"...I don't know." Ostrava said.

"We're called what we are, aren't we...? We're given the titles of the things that we are or become...I'm nameless...call me Nameless..."

"That's bloody ironic, that is," Biorr said.

"I'm not going to call you Nameless. That's ridiculous," Ostrava said.

"I'll answer to it...or you can call me something else...it doesn't matter much...

"What about Frederick?" Biorr said.

Ostrava looked at him.

"What? I'm offering up suggestions, lad. Ye said it yerself, in the middle of a fight we can't go callin 'im 'that guy'. Hell, we can call him Fred, for short. Ye like the name Fred, boy?"

"I used to have opinions..."

Biorr raised an eyebrow, then shook his head and said, "which means ye don't care. Good enough. Let's call 'im Fred."

"Nameless is the one he gave," Ostrava said. "I guess if we're going to use anything, we should use that."

"Ack, fine...but ye said it yerself: it's kinda ridiculous," said Biorr.

"For you, maybe..." Nameless said, and then stepped forward.

Ostrava and Biorr followed.

They were between two cliffs, stretching onward into the darkness. It was less a valley, and more a colossal ravine. The shanties and bridges built between them were shaky at best, and as they watched, one of them even collapsed.

"Charming," Biorr said.

"Where is Saint Astraea?" Ostrava asked.

"The node of the Archstone closest to her is disabled..." said Nameless. "This is actually the closest we could get to her...there is demonic energy blocking off the others..."

"Also charming," said Biorr.

"So...then, where are we going?"

"Down." And for once his voice didn't fade.

So they walked.

Beneath them were the bootprints of those who had come here before them. Nameless looked, and saw them etched into the wood. Saw their stories. Ghosts ran by, and he was reminded of how time and space were collapsing. The Old One was consuming every part of existence, even the laws that governed it.

But echoes remained.

–

Maiden Astraea looked out over the valley. Her white robes tarnished the instead they hit the air. Damp, ambient filth clung to them. She considered cleaning herself, but realized that if she started now, it would only get worse as she continued.

"Milady," Osford of Silenda repeated. "Do you still not think this choice may have been impulsive? Just slightly?"

"Cease your disrespect at once," Garl said, imposing himself over the shorter knight. Osford physically backed away. There was no question between them of who would win if they ever came to blows.

"It's alright, Garl," Astraea said, smiling. "He's only looking out for my safety."

"So am I," Garl said. It sounded almost defensive. "But I value your choices."

"I do as well, Milady," Osford said. "And if this is your choice, then yes, I will defend you to the death. But...I do not believe that it is the right one."

She turned away. "Given what I now know, it's the only one," she walked forward.

"What does she know?" Osford asked, when she had left earshot.

"Mind your tongue, Osford," Garl said with disgust.

"Accuse me of disrespect all you like," he said. "I'm only asking a question."

Garl's heavy voice wafted out through the steel of his helmet. "We are knights. To question is the purest form of disrespect."

Garl hurried after Maiden Astraea, leaving Osford alone. He stood there for a few seconds before he could swear he heard a sound in the distance, then shook, his platemail clanking as he shivered, and ran after his companions.

–

"Careful," Ostrava pulled Biorr aside. His boot, but nothing more, fell though a chunk of rotten wood. Wet splinters fell from the hole and into the darkness below.

"Bloody hell," Biorr cursed, and looked to the being in front of him. "How did ye not fall through that, lad?"

Nameless waved his hand, and ran it toward a post holding up a wooden platform. Both men saw what happened. His hand traveled partially through the wood. Not entirely, but its progress was impeded slowly rather than all at once. More like a thick liquid than something solid.

"I don't weigh much..." he said, then kept walking.

Biorr and Ostrava noticed the silence of his footsteps now, too.

They also noticed the silence in general. It was too silent.

"Biorr, do you think that rotten wood could have been a-" Ostrava started to whisper, but before he could finish, something came running out of the darkness ahead of them.

Nameless reacted faster than either of them could. Whatever it was kept running a few seconds after its head was lopped off, but then stumbled and fell to the ground.

"More are coming..." they heard from ahead.

And it was true.

The next came for Ostrava. He turned, but not as fast as Nameless had, it was close enough that he could spot it, a Dregling with a long, beak-like nose. It lunged at him with a spear and he deflected it barely in time. Biorr's sword came out, now, and the thing's entire body was chopped in half.

Ostrava turned back expected to see his other companion fighting...but he didn't. Instead, there were four Dregling bodies lying there, dispatched effortlessly. Nameless had already sheathed his sword.

They just stared at him.

"How many did you kill...?" he asked.

They looked at eachother.

"Uh...one," Ostrava said, trying not to sound embarassed.

Nameless looked over, as if it was so surprising that he had to confirm it.

"Five is a small group..." he said. "Next time, there will be more, and they will be more skilled...get faster."

Ostrava could swear that the last word didn't fade away. But that was it, and then he turned away, and kept walking.

"Did you see him kill those Dreglings?" Ostrava asked Biorr.

"No...what did it look like?" Biorr asked.

"I don't know, I was asking you," said Ostrava.

"...Fastest Knight I ever knew downed four men in three seconds...that was less than two," Biorr said.

"Yes," said Ostrava. "But I guess most Knights don't get to learn from their deaths."

–

Maiden Astraea sat over the body, and folded its hands over its chest.

"Why bother...?" Osford asked.

Garl looked at him. Probably glaring

"No...no, I actually want to know," he said, defensively.

She nodded, then frowned and said. "We did this to them. The least that we can do is pay them respects in death...I know there are many...but we have time."

"Not if we catch the plague," Osford said.

"That was the harsh truth that you learned, Milady?" Garl asked.

"That was a question," Osford pointed out.

This time, he could feel the glare for certain.

"No," Astraea said, as she stood, then moved on to another body. "It was one of them. It was the one that tempted me to do this in the first place...but it was not the one that finally sent me. The truth I know is too horrible to share, so I never will. But trust me when I say that given all my knowledge, this is the most noble course of action."

"I trust you, milady," Garl said, and kneeled. It was awkward, because she went down on her knees to tend to another body right after he did.

Osford looked at him, and then did the same, he really had no choice. "I, as well. I apologize for my questions."

"Questioning is natural," Astraea said, as she folded the next man's arms, and then closed his eyes. "But it must be curbed, sometimes. Especially when you do not want to hear the answer.

–

They scaled carefully down the cliffside. There were houses built along the walls, but they seemed to contain nothing but flies and bodies. One house contained nothing more than a group of skeletons, with the flesh entirely cleaned from them.

"Do you think the Fog hit this place first?" Ostrava asked. "These bodies seem pretty far along...and god, that food..."

Biorr shook his head, "No, lad. No...this was here before the fog."

Ostrava turned, "What?"

Biorr just nodded, and started walking toward the door.

Ostrava stopped him. "You must be joking. An entire family of dead bodies just left in their houses in...sorry, in _this _kingdom?"

"It's the Valley of Defilement, lad." Biorr said, stopping. "It's how it's always been."

Nameless crouched down and picked up something. It almost slipped through his ethereal grasp, but he somehow willed it to stay there.

"But...I don't understand. How did I never hear of this?"

"Because we don't speak of it, anymore, lad. Not after what happened before your time."

Namless realized that it was a doll made out of twisted twigs. Its face had been carefully crafted from dirt, and was now smudged, but the thin line of a smile could still be made out. The nose was blurry, but still there.

The eyes were missing.

"Before my time...? Biorr, have you kept things from me?"

Biorr was quiet.

"What do I not know about this place?"

"Listen, lad, because this is how it is: The Soul Arts are not free. Even when they come from Faith, the Miracler needs Spice. Spice is expensive," Biorr said.

"I don't understand, start at the beginning," Ostrava said.

"Just before yer birth, Boletaria was hit by plague. The only cure for it was supernatural...but like I told ye, it was expensive."

"Are you saying that-"

"Those who could afford it were cured," Biorr said. "Peasants were kicked out of the walls, and sent to this place, and the swamp beneath it."

Ostrava put his hand over his head in disgust.

"Are you telling me, that my entire life, while I was in luxury...the entire peasant class of Boletaria was here, dying out?"

"No, only the sick ones...the others had to work twice as hard, though," Biorr said. "Deaths from overwork were common in the mines. Revolutions broke out. That was how Latria got overstuffed. Prisoners ended up getting brought here to free up space...and prisoners are violent, lad. They made this place even worse."

"You aren't describing a functioning country right now, Biorr," Ostrava said.

"No. I'm not," Biorr said.

"So then...Boletaria...to hell with it: _My _entire kingdom was falling apart, and my father told me nothing!?"

Nameless looked up. Beneath his helmet it was hard to tell whether he was surprised.

"That's about the size of it."

"I thought we were rich. I thought we were profitable. I thought that we were making advancements in magic and technology every day," Ostrava said.

"We were," Biorr said. "Because of the Soul Arts, and...well...we had nothin else, but we had a surplus of souls."

Ostrava looked over at the dead family lying on the floor again.

"No...that's sick. That's utterly sick," he said.

"_They _were sick," Biorr argued. "They was goin to die anyway, least we could do was-"

"No," Ostrava said. "We aren't discussing this again...if this Kingdom comes back...and it will...it will be different. I'll make it different."

"I thought ye didn't want to be King?" Biorr asked.

"To hell with that," Ostrava said. "If this is how bad things were...if I could have helped, but didn't...then no. I'm done denying my responsibility. I will find my father after we are done here, whether he's alive or dead, and I will take the crown from him. _I _will restore this kingdom to its former glory...and this..." he looked over at the skeletons.

"This will never happen again."

There was a silence.

"Are you with me, Biorr?" Ostrava asked.

"Lad...Boletaria is gone," Biorr said. "And to be honest...it may have deserved it."

"Both those things may be true," Ostrava said. "I don't care. Are you with me?"

"I stood by and slept on my laurels for over twenty years, boy..."

"Then change that now. I won't ask again: _Are you with me?_"

Biorr looked up. Tears had formed in his eyes. He raised out his hand, and took Ostrava's.

"To hell with it, Lad. I'm with ye."

Nameless tucked the doll without eyes away.

"What about you?" Ostrava said, turning to him.

He looked up.

"Don't be surprised. You can fight...honestly: better than I can. You'd be an asset, and we'd be happy to have you."

There was a silence.

"Well?" Ostrava asked.

"May I speak honestly...your highness...?"

Ostrava buckled, but said, "...Yes, if you wish to."

"You're an idiot..."

They all stood completely still.

"You're an idiot...Biorr was right...your kingdom is gone and it's never coming back...he only went along with it because he's guilty about how he did nothing in the past, and he wants to pretend he can find redemption...but that's all it is. Pretend," suddenly, his words were no longer slurred. "We haven't even gone into the valley, yet. And this is why you entertain this hope. This is why you pretend that success is possible and that your filthy, inhumane, dysfunctional kingdom can be saved...that even the world itself can be saved. But if this place is even slightly as bad as the places I've been...you'll see what lies beneath this house. You'll see monsters that shouldn't exist outside of nightmares, and you'll learn the truth: there's no coming back from this. Not even in your courtly dreams. Not even if you use your most princely commanding voice, and ask it to _please stop._"

"Yer speaking to Royalty! Curb yer filth tongue!" Biorr yelled, and almost drew his weapon.

"Why are you so angry!?" Ostrava retorted. "What did I ever do to you?"

"You? Nothing...but your attitude...oh, that attitude did everything," Nameless said. "Everything that I have lost. All the torture that I have endured...it was because of hope. Hope put me through this. Everyone had hope. They thought that if they threw me against a brick wall repeatedly, I would eventually break through..so they did it. Again and again and again. I have suffered through a thousand deaths because of people like you, and I am still not even allowed to die...so no. No to your hope." He pointed at the bodies. "Because in the end, regardless of what we do. This is all that's left of us. Animals eat our bodies, men eat our souls, and we're nothing but bones that eventually crumble."

And with that, he briskly walked out of the house.

Biorr looked downward. Whatever spell Ostrava had managed to cast on him was broken. He followed and went outside.

Ostrava, stayed a little longer, and looked down at the bodies.

He vaguely recognized that something from the room had been removed, but he did not consider it.

–

She had watched them enter.

Out of all the places in Boletaria, this was the safest to hide. It should come to no surprise that the Soul Society had a foothold here. Still, it always did surprise them. New students often thought that they would not be immunized, because, naturally, such cures were the work of the Soul Arts. Did they think that agents of the organization were above using the Soul Arts for anything? Because that was not true. No...she always reminded her students: they must win first, and then remove that vile power. However, in this world as it was, they could achieve nothing without it.

She watched him dispatch four of them in an instant. That was him, she knew it at once. No one else could have killed Yurt. Maybe the big one...he seemed skilled. But he was tied to the younger one...the prince...who was as good of a fighter as a prince is expected to be.

And Yurt was dead before Ariona Allant had even returned.

So it was the ghostly one. It could be no one else, and his demeanor...the very way he carried himself gave her far more options than she'd thought she would have. Perhaps a direct Assassination was not called for, here. Perhaps there were subtler methods available. In order to know, though, she'd have to watch further.

Mephistopheles slipped away, into the shadows.

* * *

Sorry about the delay, there. I was working on a lot of things and I just got my head above water, now.

This chapter is shorter and less focused than some of the others, I'll admit. I had to introduce a lot of characters/new information here. We'll be spending a while in the Valley of Defilement though, there's a lot of important stuff that has to happen, here.


	14. Temptation

She ran along the boards of the catwalk, running past coughing adults and looking around them or through their legs. She still couldn't find anyone she knew. After searching for hours, she finally gave up and rested against the fence overlooking the seemingly bottomless valley. She sat there for a while, trying to get some sleep.

Her throat caught a fly, and she choked on it, coughing it up. Her hand ran over her chest before it formed a fist and she beat it out of her lungs. Mucus followed, and the coughing continued long after its absence. She wondered if she was catching it...if she was, then it was too late. Already too late...

"Are you alright?" a woman's voice asked.

Fear struck her and then faded. The voice was too gentle, too kind. She looked up and saw what could only be an angel. The woman was draped in white. Light lingered over her, and she absorbed and reflected it.

"I...I was just...Milady I was'a..."

The angel's hand came out, and stroked her head.

"It's alright," said the Maiden Astraea, and wrapped her arms around the little girl. "You'll be safe."

The girl's head turned, and she saw the two imposing figures standing on either side of her. Their helmets stretched out above their heads like the fin of a monster. One was large, but the other was absolutely massive, and at his back was a hammer the same size as his entire upper body.

"Milady, the girl is dirty. She may carry more than just the plague," the smaller figure said.

"Then I will cure myself of whatever else she carries, as well," said the Lady.

Neither of the knights responded to that.

The Little girl looked up at the larger knight as Astraea held her, and asked, "what's your name?"

There was a silence.

"Answer, Garl," Maiden Astraea said.

"My name is Garl of Vinland," he said, immediately.

"Vinland? Where's that?" the girl asked.

"It's southwest of here," said Maiden Astraea. "Near the coast. They have a lot of grapes and churches."

The girl blinked excitedly, "I've never had a grape, before...can you give me a grape?"

Garl cocked his head, "I don't have one with me."

The girl turned back to Astraea and said, accusatory, "I thought you said that people from Vinland had a lot of grapes."

Astraea and Osford laughed, and even Garl joined in with a slow chuckle. The girl didn't seem to understand what was funny.

"What's your name?" Astraea asked.

"Angie!" the girl said.

"That's a beautiful name...what are you doing out here, alone?"

"I'm looking for my mam or pa," the girl said. "Or my brother. Or my friend...or someone. Anyone...I'm really lonely and I'm scared and I don't know where anyone is."

Astraea's brow bent in concern. "I'm sorry," she said. "That's very sad...I hope you find them."

"I hope I do, too...but maybe you're good luck," the girl said, smiling. Too many of her teeth were missing. "Imma keep looking."

Angie ran off, then.

After they watched her go, Osford said, "we should have taken her with us."

Astraea stood up. "No...not where we're going. She's safer here."

"That's comforting," Osford said.

Astraea said nothing else, but kept walking. Garl followed not far behind.

Osford almost had to run to keep up.

–

Ostrava ran after the man who called himself Nameless.

"Wait up!" he yelled. He moved through the darkness as quickly as his armored legs could manage. Once he finally reached him, he stopped, and panted.

Nameless turned, and watched him.

"I need you to not run ahead," Ostrava said, standing up straight. "Regardless...of what you think of my plans, we need to stick together out here."

"Is that why you left Biorr behind?" Nameless asked

Ostrava looked back, then spoke again, "Biorr can take care of himself."

"So can I."

"Yes...but...you have more experience with this. We need you," Ostrava said.

"It's a shame that I won't be helping you afterward, then."

There was a pause between them. Nameless glanced around. No demons in his immediate vision. They may be preparing more ambushes.

"So you really meant that?" Ostrava asked. "You really won't help us?"

"No," he said. "The truth is that I used to fight for others. I learned."

"Well...at least you aren't fading, anymore," Ostrava said.

Nameless cocked his head.

"I mean...your voice. It isn't ethereal like it used to be. Also, you seem to be very conscious. It's like you're waking up."

"Hmm..." Nameless looked away. "It may be slowing down. But no...I'm not waking up. I'm still losing myself, I think...just slower.

There was a short pause.

"You know," Ostrava said. "You're right about one thing: it isn't fair what happened to you."

_You think? _Thought Nameless, who said nothing.

"Do you remember anything...about before, I mean? Before you came here?"

Nameless glanced down, "I want to say bits and pieces...because that was how it was for a long time...but...those bits and pieces all vanished long ago. There's nothing left of them. Nothing."

"And you're losing more by the day," Ostrava murmured.

"No. By the hour."

"...Really?"

Nameless nodded. "I can feel it, even here. It's like I'm a tower of sand, and tiny pieces of me are constantly blown off by the wind. Every second, something fades that won't be replaced...there's a lot, I guess. More left inside of me than I knew...but it's only a matter of time. That's all it is."

Ostrava shook his head, "that's horrible."

"It is," he said.

"Was there anything you found here that was worth it? I mean...even for a moment."

He thought of Yuria's bleeding body.

"...Once."

"But that's gone?"

"Like everything else."

There was a long silence. Ostrava walked over to the edge of the catwalk and looked over it, into the unfathomable darkness. He removed his helmet, turned, and gave Nameless a glare that captured even him.

"I promise you," he said. "I promise you I'll do whatever it takes to help you. You've suffered enough."

"That's a nice sentiment. There's nothing you can do."

"Then that makes it an easy promise, now doesn't it?" Ostrava said. "But I will find something. I will find anything. You have been fighting this battle long before us, and I have nothing but respect for you, and will do nothing but aid you...so long as you keep fighting it."

"It's too late for that," Nameless said. "Didn't you hear? I already stopped."

"But you're here," Ostrava said.

"...Not for the same reason."

"Does that matter?"

Nameless looked up. Ostrava's eyes seemed too strong to refuse.

An unmistakable, rhythmic clanking could be heard then, and became louder as it approached.

"We'll discuss this later," said Ostrava, and put on his helmet.

Biorr ran out of the black fog, and into their vision.

"If you keep running like that, you'll bring the entire swamp down on us," Nameless said.

"Then don't make me run just to keep up, lad!" Biorr yelled out as he reached them. "Whatever happened to stickin together, eh? Ye'd both get cuffed over the head in basic training."

"Basic training?" Nameless said. "What did the Knight Academy teach you about demons?"

Biorr scratched his head, "Uh...well, nothin I can think of?"

"Right. So do as I do."

They climbed over ladders and catwalks and rickety rope bridges. Every once in a while, they would encounter demons. Mostly, they were no more trouble than normal Dreglings, though their movements were more unpredictable. The biggest threat was the valley itself, as the rotting wood they walked over always seemed prepared to break.

"This isn't too hard," Ostrava said, as he pulled his sword from a Dregling.

"Which means it's going to get worse," Nameless said.

"What?"

"They have the upper hand, here. The fact that we've gotten as far as we have without trouble is inexcusable...they're hoping we'll get cocky."

"Are ye saying that they're sacrificing themselves just to make us complacent?" Biorr said. "That's insane."

"It is...for humans."

They came out into a narrow platform with a rope bridge on both sides. A few narrow planks ot wood connected it to another platform far below, but mostly it was almost suspended in the middle of the valley, and a fall from it would be to the death.

Then they saw the fire.

"Oh no," Nameless said.

"What are you-...oh." Ostrava gulped.

Far ahead, a long column of Dreglings carrying flaming spears was charging forward. The one in back lit the rope of the bridge behind it.

"Go back," Nameless said. "We'll find another way."

"Don't think we can do that..." Biorr murmured.

The others turned and saw what he was looking at. A few of the Dreglings they thought that they had killed stood up, then charged down the opposite bridge.

"Damn it," Ostrava said, and drew his weapon.

"You and Biorr handle the ones in front. I'll take the back by myself," Nameless said.

"By yerself...?"

"You have to deal with fire. I don't."  
Biorr nodded with that, it was true. He drew his massive swords, and prepared.

"What about the bridge?" Ostrava asked. "Shouldn't we try to stop the fire?"

"Too late for that," said Nameless, who then saw that a Dregling on his end was cutting the rope bridge, too. "Oh, damn it!"

He charged.

The first Dregling came, holding up its spear like it was jousting. He easily swerved to the side and cut it through the chest. His sword slowed briefly, but pulled through, and severed the tender flesh. The next Dregling lost its massive nose, and was stabbed through the eye. A third had its spear swept aside so hard that a fourth tripped over it and fell from the bridge. The spear carrier looked down, stunned, and had its head lopped off as a reward.

Biorr wasn't even touched by the spears, his swords took on the shape of a heavy steel whirlwind, and one Dregling after another crumpled, its body in pieces. At one point, he saw that one of the flaming spears was sticking out of his body. He hadn't felt it.

Ostrava played backup, and took out anyone who got too close to Biorr. Two Dreglings went down, a third actually managed to stick its spear into the giant knight, but was stunned when there was no result. Ostrava threw it off of the platform.

Finally, Nameless reached the end, where the Dregling was hacking at the rope bridge. He swung his sword, but surprisingly the Dregling put up its spear at just the right moment. The blade was turned away, and hit the rope that the demon had been cutting through.

There was a moment of stunned silence as the bridge creaked...and then it collapsed.

Ostrava turned just in time to see Nameless and a handful of Dreglings grabbing a thin air as the rope bridge they stood on fell apart into scattered wooden boards. They dropped into the darkness. The Dreglings screamed, but Nameless just fell, with the silence of a man who has already died a thousand times.

Meanwhile, Biorr was still holding off Dreglings, but the bridge on his side was burning.

"Biorr!" Ostrava yelled.

"Uh...yeah?" Biorr yelled as his sword severed a head in two.

"The bridge behind us is gone, we have to cross here!"

"Uh..." Biorr said, looking at the flaming rope bridge in front of them.

"_Cross!_" Ostrava yelled, with every ounce of Kingly charisma that he could muster.

"Ah, hell," Biorr said, and ran forward. Ostrava charged after him.

A few Dreglings, still on the flaming wreck, readied their spears against Biorr. They hit. It didn't make a difference. The wooden shafts may as well have been put against a steel ox. First _they_ snapped under Biorr's weight, then their owners. He didn't even bother using his swords. Ostrava sprinted after him, and felt the bridge breaking beneath him.

Finally, Biorr reached the end, and turned instinctively. Sure enough, the bridge was collapsing, it broke apart into ash and cinder, and Ostrava, for one moment, was flying through the air. Biorr dropped his swords and caught him by his fingertips

"Umbasa, lad. Yer heavy," the big man grunted, getting a better grip.

"I'm wearing steel platemail," said Ostrava. "I'm surprised you can even hold me."

"Yah, well...Soul Arts, boy," Biorr said, and as if proving his point, yanked Ostrava up onto the platform.

Biorr then glanced side to side.

"Where's the other one?"

Ostrava turned, and looked down into the Valley.

"Really..." Biorr murmured.

"He can't die," Ostrava said. "Let's just...look at it that way, I guess. But we're going the rest of the way alone."

Biorr nodded, then said, "True...I'm not worried about him, though. I'm worried about us."

They moved on. There was no other choice.

–

Nameless hit a lower platform. If he could feel pain, he assumed that it would have hurt. As it was, he was oddly neutral on the prospect of surviving a potential fall to his death. It shouldn't have surprised him. There were too many webs of wooden platforms for him to keep falling for long.

Most of the Dreglings hadn't been so lucky. One of them landed on the same platform that he did, and stood up. He laid there, and played dead just as it and its companions had done before. When it got close, he kicked its feet out from under it, stabbed it, then rolled its body off the platform, into the valley below.

These things really weren't much of a challenge.

He stood up, and found that no part of his body was particularly injured. Just in case, he ingested some moon grass. As he was eating, however, he heard the soft patter of footsteps on wood.

He waited, eating, as it got closer. Then, after he swallowed the last of the moon grass, he said. "You're sneaky...but you do realize: I'm utterly silent. I can hear you because I make no sound."

There was a pause, then a woman's voice, dark and heavy, came from the shadows. "So it's true. You really are just a soul...a being made of ectoplasm and nothing else."

"In my current state: yes," he said. "Now show yourself. I have bad experiences with people hiding in the shadows."

"I'd imagine you do," the voice said. "Yet I have bad experiences with being seen."

"I guess that puts us at a stalemate," he said. "Because I won't talk to you until I see who you are."

"You assume I'm here to talk?" She asked.

"For your sake, I pray you are," he said.

She chuckled, low, and he saw a shifting in the darkness. There was a silhouette, there, something sitting on top of a log. It took him a few seconds to be sure that it was female, because there were hardly any distinguishing marks.

"This must be new to you, threatening people," she said. "Because it sounds like it is."

He froze.

"You're more used to trying to get along with others, aren't you?...You're used to playing nice. But you've finally realized that that doesn't work. So you're trying something new."

"Who are you?" he asked.

"My name is Mephistopheles. And I have been watching you. Since the beginning."

"The beginning...?" he asked.

The shape nodded.

"Since I first came to Boletaria?"

"Before that," the shape said.

"...Before?"

"Yes," said Mephistopheles. "I know who you are."

He took a step toward her, "tell me."

All at once, she was standing on top of the log, her arms crossed. He hadn't seen her move.

"Patience," she said. "Information is not free, and there are many things I would have you do."

"You're really going to hold my _identity _hostage!?" He cried out.

"Oh come. It's more reasonable than that," she said. "Think of it this way: I have something you want. You are in a position to do something for me. You can't expect me to give away such commodities for free, given the circumstances."

"I could attack you," he said.

Again, she chuckled, and he heard now the cruelty behind the laugh. "You would murder your only chance at finding yourself again. No. Your only option is to say yes, or no."

"To what?"

And then her voice took on a droll, serious tone. "I need you to kill Prince Ariona Allant. You may know him as Ostrava."

"...Really?"

"You won't get this information any other way."

He opened his mouth to object. To curse at her, but could think of nothing to say. He realized that he wanted to be angrier than he was. Instead, he was struck with exuberance at the possibility of remembering. He couldn't feel anything else.

_She wants you to kill for her, _he tried to remind himself. But it was taken away by a deeper, stronger voice: _If I know who I am, I can leave. If I know who I am, I can be that, again. I can turn around, and leave Boletaria behind forever, and rejoin whatever my life was before. This is it. This is my freedom._

"Think of it this way," she said. "The boy is going to die. He won't survive this kingdom in its current state...not with his skills. Not with his attitude. The only difference is that you will be doing it yourself."

"I'll...think about it," he said.

"Good. Unfortunately, I'm relying on you."

"That seems risky."

"Yes, well...you killed my only servant who was a sure thing."

And she slipped away. Gone before he could ask anymore questions.

He stood there for a few seconds, considering, then noticed that there was a ramp up ahead. If he went up it, he'd probably be able to catch Ostrava and Biorr.

_Ostrava_

He had a lot to consider.

–

"What are you doing?" Garl asked.

Osford turned, and saw him standing there. He looked down at the mule, adorned with his portion of their supplies.

"What does it look like?" spouted Osford.

Garl glared at him, and this time with no helmet to hide it.

"The Maiden is leading us to our deaths," Osford said, turning away, shaking. "Wherever we're going is more dangerous than where we are now? That sounds like madness. That sounds like suicide."

"Desertion of a lord or lady is treason," said Garl.

"And that's _your _only motivation for being here?" Osford asked.

Garl said nothing. Osford didn't look to see his expression. He knew that if he looked, he might not have the courage to continue.

"I see the way you look at her. Your helmet hides your face...but I can see. I can see how every look that you give her lingers. You think that my _actions_ are forbidden? What about your _thoughts, _Garl? Astraea is a Saint sworn to purity. To even consider her in that way-"

"-Do you think I chose it?" Garl interrupted.

Osford stopped, but it was too late.

"Do you think that I woke up in the morning, and chose to love her? Do you honestly believe that was how it happened?"

He turned, then, and saw that Garl was sitting down, one of his hands covering his face.

"That's not how it was. Not how it is," Garl said. "It poisoned me. It came like a disease. All that had to happen was for me to acknowledge it...once, for one fleeting instant, and once I realized that it was there the floodgates were opened. There was no caging it again. No hiding it away. And now, all I can pray for is that she won't notice it. That I can hide it better from her than I can from you."

Osford got the feeling that he'd just stumbled into something that he did not want to get involved in. "I'm sorry," he said. "I...I didn't know it was that serious.

"It's fine...but listen," said Garl. "You cannot leave. We are Astraea's only guardians, now, and a Saint cannot embark on any leave without at least two bodyguards. If you go, this entire venture will be delegitimized. We can't afford that."

Osford paused, then looked at the mule again.

"This is your duty," Garl said. "You swore by this."

Osford sighed. "Fine. Just help me unpack."

–

Biorr and Ostrava wandered through the darkness, alone.

"Keep an eye in front of us, I'll watch the back," Ostrava said.

"Uh...lad?" Biorr said, as soon as Ostrava turned.

"What is it, Biorr?"

"We might need to both focus on the front."

Then Ostrava heard the thumping, and felt the wood shaking.

He turned as well, and saw it.

It looked just the same as the Dreglings, but its body was massive, as large as one of the giants of the sixth gate, or perhaps larger. Instead of a knife or a spear, it carried a giant club. As it reached them, it raised it.

"_Move!_" Ostrava shouted.

And they both did, in opposite directions.

The club came down, and smashed through the rotting wood between them. They looked at eachother.

"I go right and you go left?" Ostrava asked.

"Do we have a choice?" Biorr said.

The monster prepared to swing again.

They charged.

Biorr tried to hit it in the knee, but just as he was about to swing, its club hit him in the side. He was sent flying to the left, and hit the edge of the valley hard. Ostrava managed to hit the other leg, but his sword didn't seem to leave a mark. The giant turned and raised its club again.

Just then, a shape charged out of the darkness and hit the giant's leg full on. The monster tripped, tried to catch itself, but instead toppled, falling onto its back. Ostrava looked up just in time to see that the shape was familiar: Nameless. He jumped onto the creature's body, and ran quickly along its chest. It swung at him, and he dodged under the blow, then brought his sword forward and stabbed it in the face. It spasmed, and then collapsed, its arms falling to its sides.

"You're alive," Ostrava said.

Nameless turned. "You're surprised?"

"I guess I am," he said.

Nameless started to clean off his sword.

"Bloody 'ell. That hit harder than Vallarfax's left hook..." Biorr shambled over toward them.

"Are you alright, Biorr?" Ostrava asked.

Biorr looked at him, blinked, and then laughed hard.

"Have I ever not been alright? I'm more surprised about him," he turned to Nameless. "How'd ye survive?"

"There was a platform beneath us," Nameless said. "I fell to it."

"Alrighty. Well I'm not one for questioning blessings." Biorr said. "Let's get a move on."

Nameless nodded, and stepped off the giant. But then, he stood still and allowed Ostrava to take the lead.

"I thought you said you were more experienced with demons," Ostrava said.

"Oh don't worry, I'll guide you," said Nameless. "But I figure nobility should go first."

Ostrava looked back, and though he couldn't see his expression, he would imagine it to be confused. He then turned, and kept walking. Biorr followed.

Nameless watched them move on, and considered again. He had seen Ostrava in the fight. He'd seen how easy it would be...

_Biorr. _He thought. _Even if I wanted to, Biorr._

But did he want to?

_Of course I do. I need my identity. I need-_

And then he remembered: _"I promise you. I'll do whatever it takes to help you...you've sacrificed enough."_

He looked down at his sword.

It had tasted human blood before. It had killed.

He took a deep breath, and allowed himself to realize something: Ostrava was just another human. He was a better one than Yurt, he didn't deserve it as much, but that was all he was. When he looked up again, his companions had already disappeared into the darkness, and he walked quickly to keep up.

_Just one more kill. _He thought, as he tightened his grip on his sword. _If I do this...one more._

* * *

Thanks for reading.

Mephistopheles always did know how to cut a deal.


End file.
